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JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 



[See page 379 

HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD THE 
ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS FASTENED 



^IM SPURLING 
FISHERMAN 

or Making Good 


BY 


ALBERT W. TOLMAN 


ILLUSTRATED 



HARPER ^ BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 




13 1318 

# 



Jim Spurling, Fisherman 

Copyright, 1918 , by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the United States of America 
Published May, 1918 

D-s 

©CI.A497294 


TO MY BOYS 

Albert and Edward 


CONTENTS 


-iHAP. 

I. Smashed Up i 

II. A Fresh Start i8 

III. Tarpaulin Island 29 

IV. Midnight Marauders 41 

V. Getting Ready 53 

VI. Trawling for Hake 66 

VII. Shorts and Counters 78 

VIII. Salt-water Gipsies 90 

IX. Fists and Fireworks 102 

X. Rebellion in Camp 114 

XI. Turn of Tide 128 

XII. Pulling Together 138 

XIII. Fog-Bound 150 

XIV. Swordfishing 162 

XV. Midsummer Days 174 

XVI. A Lost Alumnus 186 

XVII. Blown Off 198 

XVIII. Buoy or Breaker 208 

XIX. On the Whistler 221 

XX. Squaring an Account 233 

XXI. Old Friends 243 

XXII. Percy Scores 255 

XXIII. Whittington Grit 269 

XXIV. Crossing the Tape 283 



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ILLUSTRATIONS 


He Plunged into the Sea and Dragged Himself 

TOWARD THE RoCK TO WHICH HiS FATHER WaS 

Fastened FroniispUce 

The Camp at Sprowl’s Cove Pacing p . 56 ^ 

Leaning Against the Mast-hoop that Encircled 
His Waist, He Lifted the Long Lance and 
Poised It for the Blow ** 166 \ 


Knees Braced Tightly Against the Sides of the 
Stern, Hands Locked Round the Stout Butt 
OF THE Lance, He Foiled Rush after Rush of 
THE Black-finned, White-bellied Pirates . 
They Stood Close Together on the Circular Top, 
Holding on to the Crossed Bails, Waist-high 
“We Need that Sloop and We’re Going to Have 
Her!” 


172 




222 


252 






JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 


I 



JIM SPURLING 
FISHERMAN 


I 

SMASHED UP 

“TTERE comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, 
n in his new Norman! Some speed — what?'* 

The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, 
Roger Lane, and Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting 
on the low, wooden fence before the campus, earnestly 
discussing the one thing that had engrossed their 
minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and 
leaned forward. 

On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall 
suddenly appeared a cloud of dust, out of which 
shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon brought 
it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt 
stop before the fence. 

“Pile in, fellows!” shouted the driver, a bare- 
headed youth in white flannels, “and I’ll take you 
on a little spin.” 

He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a 
straw-colored pompadour crowning his freckled fore- 

I 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

head. The sleeves of his outing shirt were rolled up 
above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt 
arms. He wore a gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, 
striped black and white, lay on the seat beside him. 

“No, thanks, Percy,” replied Lane. “Sorry we 
can’t go; but we’re too busy.” 

Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington’s 
light-blue eyes traveled inquiringly from one to the 
other. 

“Ah, come on!” he invited. “Be sports! Let’s 
celebrate the end of the course. Just to show how 
good I feel, I’m going to scorch a three-mile hole 
through the atmosphere between here and Mount 
Barlow faster than it was ever done before. Tumble 
aboard and help hold this barouche down on the 
pike while I bum the top off it for the last time.” 

Pulling out a book of tissue wrappers and a sack 
of tobacco, he began to roU a cigarette with twitch- 
ing, yellowed fingers. 

“Anybody got a match? No? Then I’U have to 
dig one up myself.” 

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a 
lucifer. Soon he was inhaling the smoke and talk- 
ing rapidly. 

“I’m so glad this is my last week here I feel like 
kicking my head off. Once I shake the dust of this 
dump off my tires, you can bet you’ll never catch me 
here again. Say, do you know what this Main 
Street reminds me of ? An avenue in Metairie Ceme- 
tery in New Orleans, with a row of white tombs on 
each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury ’em 
abovegroimd there, too. The Rubes in this burg are 
just as dead, only they don’t know it.” 


SMASHED UP 


Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed 
the half -smoked cigarette away. 

“Well, so long! My dad’s coming on the five- 
ten to see his only son graduate cum laude. And me 
loaded down with conditions a truck-horse coiildn’t 
haul I Wouldn’t that jar you? Guess I’ll have to do 
my road-buming before he gets here. Hold a watch 
on me, will you? I’m out for the record.” 

“Careful, or you’ll get pinched for over-speeding,” 
cautioned Stevens. 

Whittington spat contemptuously. 

“Pinch your grandmother!” he jeered. “I’ve 
been pinched too many times to mind a little thing 
like that.” 

Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it 
in silence. Then Spurling spoke. 

“Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank- 
accoimt you can’t touch the bottom of, mustn’t 
it? They say his father’s all sorts of a millionaire. 
Hope he doesn’t get smashed up or run over some- 
body.” 

“He’s a good-natured fool,” commented Lane. 
“But you can’t help liking him, after all. Now 
let’s get back to business.” 

It was Commencement week in mid- June at the old 
country academy nestled among the New England 
hills. The lawns before the substantial white houses 
were emerald with the fresh, unrivaled green of 
spring. Fragrant lilacs sweetened the soft air. The 
walks under the thick-leafed elms were thronged 
with talking, laughing groups. Bright-colored dresses 
dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. 
Tennis-courts and ball-field were alive with active 
3 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

figures. A few days more and students and strangers 
would be gone, and the old town would sink into the 
drowsy quiet of the long summer vacation. 

Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, 
Spurling, and Stevens fell once more into earnest 
conversation. 

Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was 
nineteen, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, 
deliberate in speech and movements. Physically 
very strong, he had caught on the academy ball 
team and played guard in football. Mentally he was 
a trifle slow; but in the whole school there was no 
squarer, more solid fellow. So far as finances went, 
he was dependent on his own resources; whatever 
education he got he must earn himself. 

Lane afforded in many respects a decided contrast 
to Spurling. Reared on a New Hampshire farm in 
the shadow of the White Mountains, he was of 
medium build, wiry and active, a practical joker, full 
of life and spirit. He had red hair and the quick 
temper that goes with it. Though not much of a 
student, he had at eighteen a keen, clear business 
head. Like Spurling, he had been obliged to make 
his own way; and, like Spurling, he was abundantly 
able to make it. 

Winthrop Stevens, or “Throppy,” as his friends 
nicknamed him, claimed a small Massachusetts city 
as his home. He was the best scholar of the three, 
dark, quiet, studious, with a decided trend toward 
mechanics and electricity. Though not obliged to 
work for his schooling, he had always chummed 
with the other two, and with them had been a waiter 
at a shore hotel the previous season. 

4 


SMASHED UP 


The trio were endeavoring to decide what they 
should do the coming summer. 

“Well,” said Lane, “what shall it be? Juggling 
food again at the Beachmont?” 

“Not for me,” answered SpurHng, decidedly. 
“I’m sick of hanging round a table, pretending to 
do as many unnecessary things as you can, wonder- 
ing whether the man you’ve waited on is going to 
give up a half-dollar or a nickel, knowing that the 
more imcomfortable you can make him feel the 
bigger fee you’ll pull down. No more tipping for 
me! I’d rather earn my money, even if I don’t get 
so much.” 

“Hits me, Jim,” assented Stevens. “What do 
you say, Budge?” 

“Same here,” agreed Roger. 

The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from 
the valley-bottom. 

“There’s the five-ten!” ejaculated Lane. “I pity 
Whittington when his dad finds how things have 
gone.” 

“Percy isn’t the only one who needs S3mipathy,” 
said Spurling, soberly. “What about his father?” 

“I’m sorry for ’em both,” was Lane’s comment. 
“But the WTiittington family ’ll have to handle its 
own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the question 
before the house ! Unless I raise at least two hundred 
dollars in the next three months, it’s no college for 
me in September.” 

A short silence followed. SpurHng took out his 
knife and deHberately sHthered a long, splintery 
shaving off the fence-top. 

“I’ve an idea,” he said, slowly. “Give me till 
5 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

evening and I’ll tell you about it. What d’you say 
to a last game of tennis?” 

The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane 
glanced up the road. 

''Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue 
streak! And there’s Bill Sanders’s old auto crawling 
up May Street hill from the railroad station! If 
Percy should hit him — ^good -night !” 

The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The peo- 
ple on the sidewalks stood still and watched. 

May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a 
high cedar hedge before the comer house made it 
impossible for the two drivers to see each other 
until they were close together. On sped the gray 
car. 

"Isn’t he humming!” 

Suddenly Whittington thmst out his left arm. 

"He’s going to turn down May Street!” shouted 
Lane. "Bound to the station after his father. 
He’ll hit Sanders, sure as fate! Hi! Hi there, 
Percy!” 

Heedless of the warning, Whittington whirled 
round into May Street and plunged full tilt into the 
hotel bus, striking it a glancing blow back of its 
front wheel. There was a tremendous crash. 

"Come on, fellows!” cried Lane. 

They ran at top speed toward the wreck. Through 
the clearing dust three figures were visible, extricat- 
ing themselves from the ruins. Sanders, the hotel 
chauffeur, was groaning and rubbing his ankle. His 
only passenger, a bald, thick-set man, with smooth 
face and bulldog jaw, had a bleeding scratch down his 
right cheek and a badly tom coat. Whittington, 


SMASHED UP 

apparently ui;iharmed, was chalky and stuttering 
from fright. 

Spurling, for all his slowness, was the first to 
reach the wreck. He helped the stout stranger to 
his feet, and the man turned angrily toward Whit- 
tington. An exclamation of surprise bxirst from 
both. 

‘‘Dad!” 

“Percy!” 

Understanding struggled with indignation on the 
older man’s face. 

“Well,” he growled, “so you’ve done it again!” 

For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, 
shaking from head to foot. 

“Are you much hurt. Dad?” he stammered. 

“Only a scratch,” returned Whittington, senior. 
“But it’s no thanks to you that I wasn’t killed.” 

He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his 
ankle. 

“Anything broken?” 

“No, sir; only a sprain.” 

“I’m glad it’s no worse. Have this mess cleared 
away and I’ll fix up with you later at the hotel; and 
get my suit-case over to my room, will you?” 

To his son he said: 

“We’ll go to your dormitory.” 

He limped grimly ahead; Percy followed. As he 
passed the three seniors he piill^ a face of mock 
repentance. The boys resumed their way to the 
tennis-court. 

“Pretty poor stick, isn’t he?” commented Lane, 
disgustedly. “Almost kills his father, and then 
laughs at it.. Throws away in a few seconds more 
7 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

than enough to put the three of us half-way through 
our freshman year in college. No, I’ve no use for 
Whittington.” 

“If he’d had to earn his own money,” remarked 
Spurling, “he’d look on things differently. He’s got 
a good streak in him.” 

“Maybe so; but it ’ll take mighty hard work to 
bring it out. Well, here’s the court. How ’ll we 
play?” 

In Whittington’s room father and son silently re- 
moved the traces of the disaster. Then the father 
pointed to a chair. 

“Sit there! I’ve something to say to you.” 

Percy took the indicated seat. 'V^ttington, 
senior’s, jaw stiffened. 

“Well!” he snapped. “Seems to me excuses are 
in order. You’ve smashed a thousand-dollar ma- 
chine, ruined a five-hundred-dollar one, and just 
missed killing yourself and me in the bargain. Pretty 
afternoon’s work, isn’t it?” 

Percy looked injured, almost defiant. 

“You must know I’m mighty sorry to have dragged 
you into this scrape. I was half frightened to death 
when I thought you were hurt. But what odds does 
it make about the cars?” 

A twinkle appeared in his eye. 

“You’ve got the cash, Dad. Who’ll spend it, if 
I don’t?” 

Taking out his book, he began rolling a cigarette. 

“Stop that!” exclaimed his father, angrily, “and 
listen to me. It isn’t the money I mind so much as 
it is the fool style in which you’ve thrown it away. 
Where’s the thing going to end? That’s what I 
8 


SMASHED UP 


want to know. If you’d only get mad when I talk 
to you, there’d be some hope for you. But you 
haven’t backbone enough left to get mad. You’ve 
smoked it all away.” 

“Oh, come now. Dad!” 

“You ask who’ll spend the money. I know mighty 
well who won’t, unless he strikes a new gait. There’s 
plenty of colleges and hospitals to endow, and enough 
other ways of putting all I’ve got where it ’ll do some 
good. I’ve worked too hard and too long for my 
fortune to have a fool scatter it to the winds. You 
can come down to the hotel with me for supper. 
After that I’ll foot the bills for your Httle excursion, 
and then go over alone to see Principal Blodgett. 
And let me say right now that it ’ll be a pretty im- 
portant interview for you.” 

Lane, Spurling, and Stevens, their tennis over, 
were starting for their boarding-house. Crossing the 
campus, they met Percy and his father. The former 
nodded soberly. Whittington, senior, a cross of court- 
plaster on his right cheek, passed them without a 
glance. 

“Percy doesn’t look very happy,” remarked 
Stevens, when they were at a safe distance. 

“Just a passing cloud,” grinned Lane. “It takes 
more than a Httle thing Hke junking a thousand- 
dollar auto to bother Percy. He’ll forget all about 
it before to-morrow.” 

“See that dreadnought jaw on his father? If I 
was Percy I’d be kind of scary of that jaw. John P. 
WTiittington isn’t a man to stand much monkeying, 
or I miss my guess.” 

“Well, we’ve got troubles of our own, and no dad 
9 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

with a fat bank-account to foot the bills. Why so 
still, Jim? Something on your mind, eh?’* 

Jim’s forehead was wrinkled. 

“Wait!” was all he deigned. 

Back in his room, after supper, he unbosomed 
himself : “A week ago I had a letter from Uncle Tom 
Sprowl. He lives in Stonington, on Deer Isle, east 
of Penobscot Bay; but most of the time he fishes 
and lobsters from Tarpaulin Island, ten miles south 
of Isle au Haut. Last month, just after he had 
started the season in good shape, he was taken down 
with rheumatism, and the doctor has ordered him to 
keep off the water for three months. Now that island 
is one of the best stands for fish and lobsters on the 
Maine coast. Somebody’s going to use it this sum- 
mer. Why shouldn’t we? If we have reasonably 
good luck, we can clear up two himdred and fifty 
dollars apiece for the season’s work. I’ve talked the 
thing over with Mr. Blodgett, and he thinks it’s 
all right. Of course we’d be in for a lot of good hard 
work; but it’s healthy, and we’re aU in first-class 
trim. We’d soon get hardened to it. Now, boys, 
it’s up to you.” 

Lane hesitated. 

“Do you think that two such farmers as Throppy 
and I could make much of a fist at fishing?” 

“Sure thing! I can show you how. I’ve fished 
since I was ten years old.” 

“Where did you say the island is?” asked Stevens. 

“Right out in the Atlantic Ocean, a good twenty- 
five miles from the mainland. It’s about a half- 
mile long and a quarter broad, partly covered with 
scrub evergreen, and has fifty acres of pasture. 

10 


SMASHED UP 


Uncle Tom’s got some sheep there, too. He’s afraid 
they’ll be stolen; so he wants somebody there the 
earliest minute possible. He’ll furnish all the gear 
and go halves with us on the season’s catch. What 
do you say, Budge?” 

'‘I’m with you, if Throppy is.” 

“It’s a go,” was Stevens’s verdict. 

Somebody knocked on the door. 

“Come in!” called Spurling. 

To their great surprise, in came Mr. Whittington. 

Removing his Panama, he took the chair Spurling 
offered him. An unlighted cigar was gripped be- 
tween his short, stubby fingers. There were dark 
circles under his steel-gray eyes, and his jaw had, 
if possible, more of a bulldog set than ever. His 
square, sturdy build, without fat or softness, sug- 
gested a freight locomotive with a driving power to 
go through anything. He was not a handsome 
man, but he was undeniably a strong one. 

He plunged at once into the purpose of his visit. 

“I guess you know I’m Whittington’s father. 
I’ve just been over to Principal Blodgett’s, having 
a talk about Percy. I don’t need to tell you how 
he’s spent his year here, so I’ll come right to the 
point.” 

He leaned forward and fastened his keen eyes 
on Spurling. 

“The principal says you plan to spend the summer 
fishing from an island on the Maine coast. I want 
Percy to go with you.” 

The three exchanged glances of amazement. Lane 
swallowed a grin. Nobody spoke for a half -minute; 
then Spurling broke the silence. 

II 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

*‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Whitting- 
ton, but, honestly, the thing isn’t possible. That island 
is ten miles from the nearest other land. We’re 
not out for a pleasure junket, but for three months 
of the hardest kind of hard work. There’ll be no 
automobiling, no pool or cards or moving pictures. 
It means being up at midnight, and not getting to 
bed until the fish have been taken care of. It means 
sore fingers and lame backs and aching joints. It 
means standing wind and cold and fog and rain 
until you’re tired and wet and chilled to the bone. 
It’s a dead-earnest business out there, one hun- 
dred days of it, and every day has got to count. 
A college year for the three of us hangs on this 
summer, and we can’t risk having it spoiled. 
You’ll have to think up some other place for 
Percy.” 

Mr. Whittington’s chin set a trifle more firmly. 
He pulled out his cigar-case and proffered it to each 
of the boys in turn. 

“Have a perfecto? No? Guess it’s as well 
for you not to, after all. Wish Percy was taken 
that way. Excuse me if I light up. I can talk 
better.” 

Soon he was smoking hard. 

“I want to have a little talk with you about my 
boy. Come, now, just between ourselves, what kind 
of a fellow is he? You probably know him better 
than I do. I’ve had my business; and he’s been 
under tutors and away at school so long that I 
haven’t seen much of him since his mother died, 
eight years ago.” 

The boys glanced at one another and hesitated: 

12 


SMASHED UP 


Young Whittington was a hard topic to discuss 
before his father. The millionaire misunderstood 
their silence. His face grew gloomy. 

“Oh, well, if he’s as bad as all that, no matter! 
I hoped he might have some good points.” 

“Don’t misunderstand us, Mr. Whittington,” 
said Spurling, quietly. “Percy isn’t a bad fellow. 
He isn’t dishonest. He doesn’t cheat or crib. He’s 
flunked honestly, and that counts for something. 
He’s a good sprinter, and plays a rattling game of 
tennis, and he’d be a very fair baseball-player if he’d 
only let cigarettes alone. But he’s soft and he’s 
lazy. He’s had too much money and taken things 
too easy. He’s probably never earned a single cent 
or done a stroke of real work in his life. He’s been 
in the habit of letting his pocketbook take the place 
of his brain and muscles ; and he’s got the idea that 
a check, if it’s only large enough, can buy anything 
on earth. That’s why he wouldn’t be any good to 
himseK or anybody else out on Tarpaulin Island. He’d 
simply be underfoot. It ’d be cruel to take him there. 
Excuse me if I hurt your feelings. You’ve asked 
a straight question, and I’ve tried to give you a 
straight answer.” 

The man chewed the butt of his cigar for a few 
seconds. Then he removed it from his mouth and 
blew a smoke-ring. 

“I don’t believe,” he said, reflectively, “that 
either of you three had any tougher time than I 
had when I was a boy. No school after foiuteen. 
No college. Just work, work, work, and then some 
more work. But it hardened me up, made a man 
of me; perhaps it hardened me too much. Guess 
13 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

some of the men I’ve done business with have 
thought so. After I made my first million — ” 

He broke off abruptly. 

“But let’s get back to Percy. I’ve done every- 
thing in the world for that boy, and now I’m at 
the end of my rope. Tutors, private schools, sum- 
mer camps, trainers, travel, automobiles — and what 
have they all amounted to?’’ 

He talked rapidly and nervously, emphasizing 
with his cigar. 

“It’s no use to offer him any prize; he’s had every- 
thing already. I found he was hitting too rapid a 
pace in the bigger schools, so I sent him down here. 
Thought he might do better in a quiet place. But 
his reports didn’t show it, and the talk I’ve just had 
with the principal has pretty near discouraged me. 
I’ve bucked up against a good many tough proposi- 
tions, but I’m free to say that he’s the toughest. 
I don’t see where he ever got that cigarette habit. 
I never smoked one in my life.’’ 

Again he began puffing furiously. 

“He ought to have the stuff in him somewhere; and 
I believe a summer with you fellows ’d bring it out. 
If it didn’t, I don’t know what would. Come, boys ! 
Strain a point to oblige me! I’ll pay you anything 
in reason. How large a check shall I write?’’ 

He reached for his inside pocket. Spurling flushed 
and held up his hand. 

“No, Mr. Whittington,” said he, decidedly, “we 
can’t do business that way. We’re not running 
any reform school and we’re not asking anybody to 
give us a cent. We’re going out there to earn money 
for our first year in college, and we’re going to take 
14 


SMASHED UP 


it out of the sea, every last copper! I don’t say it 
to boast, but since I was ten I’ve had to shift for 
myself. I know where every cent in my pocket and 
every ounce of muscle on my body has come from. 
If Percy should go with us he’d have to take his 
medicine with the rest of us and pay his own way by 
working. Give us a Httle time alone to talk the 
matter over, and well soon tell you whether he can 
go or not.” 

Whittington heaved his square bulk erect and 
crushed on his hat. 

‘^I’ll be back in ten minutes.” 

Almost to the second he was at the door again. 
Stepping inside, he awaited their verdict, not trying 
to conceal his anxiety. A great relief overspread his 
face at Spurling’s first words. 

**A11 right, Mr. Whittington! Percy can come — 
on trial. He can stop with us a month. Then if we 
don’t hitch together he’ll have to leave. But if he 
likes it, and we hke him, he can stay the rest of the 
summer. If the bunch earns anything over and above 
what it would have gotten if he hadn’t been with 
us, he’ll get it. If it doesn’t, he won’t.” 

Five minutes later the millionaire entered Percy’s 
room. The latter was smoking a cigarette and play- 
ing soHtaire. He glanced up expectantly, a couple 
of cards in his hand. As he sat down opposite his 
son, John Whittington had never looked grimmer. 
The vein^ swelled blue on his flushed temples, and 
the lines on his face were deeply drawn. 

'‘Now, Percy, you and I are going to talk business. 
Put down those cards and chuck that coffin-nail into 
the stove. Why can’t you use a man’s smoke if 
15 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

you’re going to smoke at all? I’ve been talking with 
Mr. Blodgett, and I find it’s the same old story. 
Y ou’ ve wound up your preparatory course with a worse 
smash than you had this afternoon. You haven’t 
made good. I’m beginning to doubt if you can make 
good. You’ve done worse every year. You’re noth- 
ing now, and if you keep on like this you’ll soon be 
worse than nothing. You can put down one thing 
good and solid — I won’t stand for your going the pace 
like Chauncey Pike or George Brimmer’s son . I ’d give 
half my money — yes, the whole of it, if you had the 
stuff in you that young Spurling has. I mean it.” 

He stopped, then began again : 

'‘I’m going to give you one chance more, and only 
one. It’s quicksilver, kill or cure, and a stiff dose 
at that. I’ve just been talking with Spurling and 
his two friends. They’re to spend the summer fishing 
from an island off the Maine coast, to earn money 
to start their college course. And you’re going with 
them!” 

“What! Me! I rather guess not! Nailed to the 
mast three months out on a rock like that? Not for 
a minute! Besides, I’m booked for Ba^* Harbor day 
after to-morrow. Got my ticket already.” 

“Let’s look at it!” 

Percy pulled out the slip of pasteboard and passed 
it over. 

His father thrust it into his pocket. 

“I can get the money on it. The agent ’ll take 
it back.” 

“But I don’t want him to take it back.” 

“I do.” 

The bulldog jaws clamped together. 

i6 


SMASHED UP 


“Oh, I say, Dad! Come, now! That isn’t using 
me right!” 

“Isn’t using you right? Why not? Don’t be a 
fool, Percy! Wliose money bought that ticket?” 

“Mi — Why — er — ^yours, of course!” 

“Well, will you go to the island?” 

“No, I will not.” 

“Then you don’t get a cent more from me. 
You’ve overdrawn your bank-account already.” 

“How do you know? You haven’t been down to 
the bank.” 

“You don’t suppose I’d have a monthly check 
deposited to your account without arranging to 
know something about it, do you? Mighty poor 
business man if I did! Now, Percy, use what little 
brain you have! You’ve no money, and you can’t 
earn any. Nobody would be fool enough to hire 
you. There’s nothing on earth you can do. I’m 
going to give you one last chance to make a man of 
yourself. You’ve three months to make good in 
and I expect you to do it. You’ve got to make up 
those conditions and earn your salt to show there’s 
some excuse for your being alive. Your whole life 
hangs on the way you spend the next hundred days. 
I s’oart for the West Coast to-morrow, and won’t be 
back till fall. I want you to write me — ^if you feel 
like it. Will you go?” 

The strains of a violin came floating in through the 
open window. The academy bell struck ten long, 
lingering strokes. 

“Well, what do you say? I’m waiting.” 

Percy swallowed hard. 

“I’ll go.” 

2 


17 


II 


A FRESH START 

T WO mornings later Percy Whittington was 
awakened in his room at the Thorndike in 
Rockland by a bell-boy hammering on his door. 
‘‘What’s the matter?” he inquired, stupidly. 
“Five o’clock! Five o’clock! Your call!” 

“Is that all?” exclaimed Percy, relieved. “I 
didn’t know but the hotel might be on fire.” 

He rolled over for another nap. Half an hour later 
he was roused by a lively tattoo beaten on the panels 
by two sets of vigorous knuckles. 

“Inside there, Whittington!” exhorted Lane’s 
voice. “Wake up! This isn’t any rest-cure. The 
Stonington boat starts in twenty minutes. You’ve 
lost your breakfast, and unless you hustle you’ll 
make us miss the steamer. Better let us in to help 
you pack!” 

Percy bounded out of bed and admitted Lane and 
Spiurling. While he dressed hastily they jammed 
his scattered belongings into two suit-cases. Stevens 
joined them in the hotel office and they made a 
lively spurt for Tillson’s Wharf, reaching the Governor 
Bodwell just before her plank was pulled aboard. 

The party had arrived in Rockland on the late 
train the night before, and were to start for Stoning- 

i8 


A FRESH START 


ton early that morning. Percy’s drowsiness had 
almost thwarted their plans. 

“You’ll have to revise your sleeping schedule, 
Whittington, when we get to Tarpaulin,’’ said 
Spurling. 

Percy was too much interested in the view opening 
before him to take offense at this remark. 

It was a calm, beautiful June morning. A gentle 
breeze barely rippled the smooth, blue water as 
the Governor Bodwell headed eastward out of the har- 
bor. Behind lay the city, fringed with lazily smoking 
lime-kilns, each contributing its quota to the dim 
haze that obscured the shore-line. Leaving on their 
left the little light on the tip of the long granite 
breakwater, and presently on their right the white 
tower on the hummock of Owl’s Head, marking the 
entrance of rocky Muscle Ridge Channel, they were 
soon plowing across the blue floor of West Penob- 
scot Bay. Due north, Rockport Harbor opened 
between wooded shores, while beyond it rose the 
Camden Hills, monarchs of the rolling line of 
mountains stretching up toward Belfast. 

A five-mile sail, and they were threading their 
way through narrow, winding Fox Island Thorough- 
fare, to the wharf at North Haven. Thence across 
East Penobscot Bay, by Deer Island Thoroughfare, 
to the granite wharf at Stonington, the rockiest 
town in the United States. Here they disembarked, 
and a short walk up a side-street brought them to 
the house of Spurling’s uncle, Mr. Thomas Sprowl. 

Uncle Tom was at home, confined by his rheuma- 
tism and the doctor’s orders. He greeted the boys 
gladly. 


19 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Got your letter last night, Jim,” said he, “and 
I can tell you it took a weight off my mind. Since 
I’ve been sick I’ve nigh fretted myself to death 
about Tarpaulin.” 

He groaned, and shifted himself painfully in his 
chair. 

“Those twinges take me unexpected,” he ex- 
plained. “You see,” returning to his subject, “all 
my gear’s on the island, besides those fifty sheep. 
Quite a risk for a man with so little as I’ve got. 
You don’t know how pleased I am that you fellows 
are going to be on deck there this summer. You’re 
a good, husky lot — at least most of ye.” He scanned 
Percy a trifle dubiously. “You’ll have a fine time 
the next three months, and you’ll make some money. 
Wish I could go down with ye!” 

He winced and stifled another groan. 

“When do you plan to start?” 

“Just as soon as we can arrange for our boats 
and stores,” replied Jim. 

“Good enough! You can be there to-night, slick 
as a whistle. Remember the Barracouta, that old 
power-sloop we’ve taken so many trips in? I’ve 
had her overhauled this spring and a new seven- 
and-a-half -horse engine put in her; her jibs and 
mainsail are in first-class shape. You’ll find her at 
my mooring near the steamboat wharf. My Bucks- 
port dory has just been pulled up on the ledges and 
painted. You’ll need another boat besides, so I’ve 
arranged with Sammy Stinson to let you have his 
pea-pod. She’ll do to lobster in. Now as to gear. 
You’ll find over a hundred lobster-traps piled up on 
the sea-wall near my cabin, and there’s six tubs of 
20 


A FRESH START 


trawl in the fish-shed. Keep an account of what- 
ever stuff you have to buy for repairs, and we can 
settle at the end of the season.” 

'‘What’s the best way of handling our catch?” 

“The fish you can split and salt and take over to 
Matinicus once a week. Your lobsters will sell 
easy to some smackman. Captain Ben Higgins 
comes east from Portland every week in the Calista; 
he’s been in the habit of making Tarpaulin his next 
port of call after York Island. You’ll find him 
square as a brick. Better buy your supplies at 
Matinicus; it’s a strong twelve miles off, but that 
isn’t a bad run in decent weather.” 

The boys rose to go. 

“Well, Uncle Tom,” said Jim, “the next time 
we see each other, I hope you’ll be feeling fit as < 
a fiddle.” 

“You can’t wish that any harder than I do, my 
boy. Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot one thing. 
Here, Nemo!” 

A fox-terrier, lying on a rug, sprang up alertly. 
He was white, except for two brown ears and a 
diamond of the same color on the top of his head. 

“Better take this dog along. The mate of a St. 
John coaster gave him to me last fall. I call him Cap- 
tain Nemo. He’s death on rats; and there’s some 
on the island this year. Must have come ashore 
from a schooner wrecked there in the winter. An- 
other thing ! Got any gun ? ’ ’ 

“No.” 

“Then there’s my ten-gauge.” He indicated a 
double-barreled shot-gim standing in the comer. 
“You’ll find a couple of boxes of loaded shells in that 
21 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

table drawer. You may want to kill some ducks in 
the fall. Only don’t shoot Oso!” 

“Oso?” 

‘‘Yes. My tame crow. I had a Spanish fellow 
with me a few weeks last summer, and he found the 
bird in a nest. Clipped one wing, so he couldn’t 
get away from the island. Named him ‘Oso’; said 
it meant ‘The Bear.’ He’ll pester ye to death round 
the fish-house, after he gets acquainted.” 

Putting Nemo on a leash and taking the gun, the 
boys filed out. Uncle Tom called Jim back. 

“I almost forgot to tell you to go to Parker’s for 
your outfit. He’ll use you right. Who’s that pale- 
faced fellow with the tow head?” 

Spurling told him briefly about Percy. Uncle Tom 
grunted. 

‘‘Needs salting, doesn’t he? Well, he’ll get it out 
there.” 

Down in Parker’s general store on the main street 
the boys purchased their supplies. They laid in a 
generous stock of provisions of all sorts, and under 
Jim’s expert direction reinforced the weak spots 
in their wardrobes to adapt them to the demands 
of the next three months. Oil-clothes, heavy imder- 
clothing, hip boots of red rubber, white, doughnut- 
shaped woolen ‘‘nippers” for pulling trawls, and 
various other articles for convenience and comfort 
were added to their outfits. 

Percy regarded it all in the light of a huge lark. 
Dressing himself in oilskins and rubber boots, he 
paraded up and down the store, much to the pro- 
prietor’s disgust. 

‘‘Pretty fresh, isn’t he?” remarked Parker to Jim. 

22 


A FRESH START 


“After he’s been out in two or three storms he’ll 
find those clothes aren’t so much of a joke.” 

The party’s purchases were sent down to the 
steamboat wharf, to be added to the baggage already 
there. The boys followed, Percy swaggering super- 
ciliously along after the others, with his eternal 
cigarette. 

Captain Nemo, towing behind Spurling on his 
leash, got in Percy’s way, and the boy stepped on 
his foot. Nemo yelped, then growled and bristled. 

“Get out, you cur!” exclaimed Percy, launching a 
kick at the beast. 

“Easy, Whittington I” warned Spurling. “A dog 
doesn’t forget. You don’t want to make an enemy 
of him at the start.” 

“Enemy?” sneered Percy. “What do I care for 
that mangy cur! It ’ll teach him to keep out of my 
way.” 

Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes 
they were on the wharf. 

A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen 
stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit 
of blue serge, a gray-flannel shirt with red necker- 
chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black 
eyes bespoke the Italian. Spurling and the others 
glanced at him casually; their interest was centered 
on assembling and loading their flotilla. 

“There’s the Barracouta!” said Jim, pointing to a 
sloop moored a hundred yards away. “And there’s 
Stinson’s pea-pod tied to her stem. That yellow dory 
up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom’s. He said we’d 
find her oars and fittings at Haskell’s boatshop.” 

Soon pea-pod and dory were being loaded beside 
23 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

the wharf. The young Italian had come to the 
string-piece, and was watching the embarkation. 
Jim saw that tears were trickling down his cheeks. 

'‘What's the matter?” he asked. 

The boy turned away, his breast heaving. Jim 
tossed the painter to Lane. 

“Look out for the boat a minute. Budge! I want 
to find what the trouble is with that yotmg fellow.” 

The lad had stepped across the wharf and was 
gazing sadly down into the water. Jim touched his 
shoulder. 

“Don't you feel well, son?” 

The kindly words had a surprising effect — the 
lad burst into tears. Jim tried to soothe him. 

“There, there! It can't be so bad as aU that! 
Tell me about it.” 

Little by little the boy's story came out. He 
was a Sicilian from a little village {un villaggio) 
not far from Messina. His name was FiHppo Cana- 
melli. His father was a mason {un muratore). 
Filippo and his older brother Frank had decided 
to seek their fortunes in America. Frank had gone 
over the year before, promising to send money back 
to pay for Filippo’s passage. He had done so that 
winter, in Fehbrajo. Filippo had sailed from Naples 
the next month, and had landed in New York in 
April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom 
his brother had left word for him to come to a cer- 
tain address in Boston. But in that city he had lost 
all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, 
he had drifted down to Stonington and had gone to 
work in the granite quarries. But he found the 
labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. 

24 


A FRESH START 


He had given up his job the day before. What he 
should do and where he should go next he did not 
know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while 
Jim listened. 

When he had finished, Spurling stepped across 
the wharf to his waiting friends. Very briefly he 
rehearsed the Italian’s story. 

“Boys,” he concluded, “what do you say to asking 
him to come down with us to Tarpaulin? I believe 
he’s a clean, straight little fellow, and he can more 
than make up for his board by cooking and doing 
odd jobs. We can afford to pay him something to 
boot.” 

Before either Budge or Throppy had a chance to 
express an opinion Percy spoke out decidedly: 

“Take that little Dago with us? I say no. You 
can’t trust his kind. I know ’em. They’re a thiev- 
ing, treacherous lot, smooth to your face, but ready 
to stab you the minute your back’s turned. I’ll 
bet you a five-dollar bill he’s got a knife hid some- 
where about him. He might take a notion some 
night to cut all our throats.” 

“Whittington,” said Spurling, bluntly, “under the 
circumstances it might be better taste for you not to 
speak until you’ve heard from the rest of us. My 
throat’s worth just as much to me as yours is to 
you, and I don’t feel I’d be running any great risk 
by inviting that boy to come along with us.” 

Lane and Stevens agreed. 

“It’s three against one, Whittington,” said Jim. 

He walked over to the Italian and said a few words 
to him. The lad’s face lighted up with gratitude. 
Impulsively he bent and kissed Spurling’s hand. 
25 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Jim flushed with embarrassment as he and the 
stranger came back to the others. 

“He’ll be glad to go with us, fellows. Now let’s 
get a move on and hustle this stuff aboard. We 
want to be settled at Tarpaulin before dark.” 

Soon all their goods were on the sloop. The dory 
was made fast to her stem and the pea-pod’s painter 
tied to the dory. The expedition was ready to 
start. On board the Barracouta Lane and Stevens, 
standing side by side, faced Jim and brought their 
palms to their foreheads. 

“Attention!” ordered Lane: “Spurling & Com- 
pany! Salute!” 

Jim returned the compliment with a sweep of 
his hand. He threw on the switch and rocked the 
wheel; the engine started — click-click-click . . . 
Gathering headway, the Barracouta nosed south, 
dory and pea-pod trailing behind her. Before them 
lay an archipelago of granite islands. 

“This is an old stamping-ground of mine,” said 
Jim. “I’ve fished and lobstered round here so much 
that I know every rock and shoal for miles. That’s 
Crotch Island on our west, with the derricks and 
quarries; they’ve taken no end of granite off it.” 

He held up his hand. 

“Breezing up from the southwest. That ’d be 
dead ahead if we went west of Isle au Haut as I’d 
planned. Guess we’ll go east of it; then we can 
use our canvas to help us along. Steer for me, 
Budge, while I get sail on her!” 

Soon outer jib, jumbo and mainsail were set 
and trimmed close, and Spurling again took the helm. 
The Barracouta ran southeast through Merchant’s 
26 


A FRESH START 


Row, a procession of rugged islets slipping by on 
either side; then south past Fog and York islands, 
with the long, high ridge of Isle au Haut walling 
the western horizon; down between Great Spoon 
and Little Spoon, past White Horse and Black 
Horse, toward the heaving blue of the open ocean. 

A grum, melancholy note came floating over the 
long sea swells — Oo-oo-oo-ooh ! And again, Oo-oo- 
oo-ooh ! 

“What’s that!” exclaimed Percy. 

“Whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge. 
One of our nearest neighbors. We’ll hear that voice 
pretty often, when the wind’s from the north.” 

They passed two miles east of the whistler, and 
gradually its warning blast grew fainter and fainter. 
On the horizon straight ahead a little black mound 
was slowly rising above the breaking waves. Jim 
swung his hand toward it. 

“There’s Tarpaulin ! Our home for the next three 
months! Looks kind of small and lonesome when 
you’re running offshore for it; but it’s pretty good 
to make after an all-day fishing-trip. What’s the 
matter, Whittington?” 

Percy’s face was somewhat white ; for the last half- 
hour he had been strangely subdued. 

“I don’t feel very good,” said he. 

Spurhng eyed him critically, then scanned the 
faces of the others. The Barracouta was rising and 
falling on the long swells in a manner decidedly 
disconcerting to weak stomachs. Stevens and the 
yoimg Italian did not look much happier than 
Percy. Jim could not help smiling a little. 

“Good seasick weather!” he observed, judicially. 

27 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

'‘Excuse me for laughing, boys! It’s a mean thing 
to do, but I can’t help it. I’ve been there myself 
— years ago. You’ll be worse before you’re better.” 

They were, considerably, all three, Percy in par- 
ticular. For the next hour conversation dragged; 
but all the while Tarpaulin loomed larger and larger. 
To Jim it wore the aspect of an old friend, and he 
dilated on its features for the benefit of the others. 

“You see that western end is fifty acres of past- 
ure, sloping north; those gray dots are sheep 
grazing. The eastern half is just scrub evergreen. 
That little cove on the northeast comer ’s the 
Sly Hole; you mightn’t think it, but a good-sized 
schooner can ride there at low tide. Pretty rocky 
all round. Always a surf breaking on one side or 
the other. Our landing-place is on the south.” 

Before long the Barracouta and her tow were 
skirting the eastern ledges. Under the island it 
was comparatively calm, and the seasick three felt 
better. Then, as they rounded a wooded promon- 
tory and turned west, it grew rough again, but only 
for a few minutes. Spurling steered the sloop into 
calm water behind the protecting elbow of another 
point, off which lay the half-submerged hulk of a 
wrecked vessel. 

“Sprowl’s Cove!” exclaimed Jim. “How do you 
like the looks of your hotel, Whittington?” 


Ill 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 

C URIOSITY dispelled the last vestiges of Percy’s 
seasickness. For a little while he gazed with- 
out speaking. 

A cove four hundred feet wide opened toward the 
south between two rocky points. At its head a 
pebbly beach sloped up to a sea-wall, behind which 
a growth of cattails bespoke a stagnant lagoon. 
Still farther back a steep bank of dirt rose to the 
overhanging sod of the pasture. 

From the western point a spur extended into the 
cove, forming a little haven amply large enough for 
a modest fleet of fishing-boats. Near by on the sea- 
wall stood two structures, one low, oblong, flat- 
roofed, with a rusty iron stovepipe projecting from 
its farther end; the other a small, paintless shed 
with a large door. Percy gave them only a casual 
glance. 

“You said we were going to live in a camp. Where 
is it?” 

Jim pointed to the first structure. 

“There! It’s the cabin of an old vessel that 
came ashore here in a southerly gale years ago. 
Uncle Tom jacked it up a foot, put in a good floor, 

and made it into a first-rate camp. It’s got bunks 
29 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

for half a dozen, and at a pinch could hold more. 
The roof’s a bit leaky, but we’ll soon fix that. There’s 
a good stove, and always plenty of driftwood on the 
beach. It’s a mighty snug place on a stormy day.” 

Percy turned up his nose at this list of good 
points. 

“What’s that pile of chicken-coops near it?” 

“Lobster-traps.” 

“And that big box with its top just above water?” 

“A lobster-car. All that we catch in the traps 
we put in there until the smack comes.” 

The mooring-buoy was now alongside. Making 
the Barracouta fast, the boys went ashore in the 
dory and pea-pod. Percy became conscious that he 
was thirsty. 

“Where can I get a drink?” 

“There’s the spring at the foot of that bank.” 

Opening a trap-door in a rude wooden cover, 
Percy looked down into a shallow well. The only 
cup at hand was an empty tin can. Rather disdain- 
fully he dipped it full and tasted, then spat with a 
wry face. 

“It’s brackish!” he called out, indignantly. “I 
can’t drink that.” 

Spurling and the others were hard at work un-* 
loading the boats. Percy repeated his complaint: 

“I can’t drink that stuff.” 

Jim was staggering up the beach, a heavy box 
of groceries in his arms. 

“Sorry!” he replied, indifferently. “That’s what 
all the rest of us ’ll have to drink. It isn’t Poland 
water, but I’ve tasted worse.” 

Percy slammed down the cover and tossed away 
30 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 


the can in a huff. Lane was passing boxes and 
bundles ashore from the dory to Stevens and FiHppo. 

“jSatch hold here, Whittington, and help tote 
some of this stuff up to the cabin,” exhorted Budge. 

Percy complied ungraciously; but he was careful 
not to tackle anything very heavy. 

“I didn’t come out here to make a pack-mule of 
myself,” was his mental remark. 

Jim unfastened the rusty padlock on the cabin 
door and stepped inside. Percy followed him, eager 
to get a glimpse of his new home. 

The camp had not been opened for some weeks; 
it smelled close and stuffy. As Percy crossed its 
threshold his nostrils were greeted by a mingled odor 
of salt, tarred rope, and decaying wood, flavored 
with a faint suggestion of fish. Mastering his re- 
pugnance, he looked about. 

He saw a single, low room, nine by fifteen, dimly 
lighted by three small windows, one in the farther 
end directly opposite the door, the remaining two 
facing each other in the middle of the long sides. 
Along the right wall on each side of the central 
window was built a tier of two bunks. On Percy’s 
left, over a wooden sink in the comer near the door, 
was a rough cupboard. Next came a small, rusty 
stove with an oven for baking; then, under the 
window, an unpainted table; and on the wall be- 
yond, a series of hooks from which were suspended 
various articles of clothing and coils of rope. Empty 
soap-boxes supplied the place of chairs. 

With nose uplifted and a growing disgust on his 
features, Percy surveyed the cramped, dingy room. 

“How do you like it?” asked SpurHng. 

31 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“You don't mean to say that five of us have got 
to live in this hole?" 

“Nowhere else, unless you want to stay out on 
the beach or in the fish-house." 

“But where do we sleep?" 

“There!" Jim gestured toward the wooden frame- 
work on the right wall. 

Percy thrust his hand into one of the bunks. 

“Why, there's no mattress or spring here! It's 
only a bare box!" 

“That's just what it is, Whittington! You’ve hit 
the nail on the head this time. You’ll have to 
spread your blanket on the soft side of a pine board. 
If you want something real luxurious you can go 
into the woods and cut an armful of spruce boughs 
to strew under you." 

Percy disregarded this badinage. From his view- 
point the situation was too serious for jesting. It 
was outrageous that he, the son of John P. Whit- 
tington, should be expected to shift for himself like 
an ordinary fisherman. 

“I’m not used to living in a pigpen!" he snapped. 
“This cabin’s too dark to be healthy; besides, it 
isn’t clean." 

A spark of temper flashed in Spurling’s eyes. 

“Stop right there, Whittington! This is my uncle 
Tom’s cabin. Any place that’s been shut up for 
weeks seems stuffy when it’s first opened. You’ll 
find that there are things a good deal worse than 
salt and tar and fish and a few cobwebs. I want to 
tell you a story I read some time ago. Once in the 
winter a party of Highlanders were out on a foray. 

Night overtook them beside a river in the mountains, 
32 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 


and they prepared to camp in the open. Each 
drenched his plaid in the stream, rolled it round his 
body, and lay down to rest in the snow, knowing 
that the outside layers of cloth would soon freeze 
hard and form a sleeping-bag. In the party were 
an old chieftain and his grandson of eighteen. The 
boy wet his plaid like the others, but before he lay 
down he rolled up a snowball for a pillow. The 
old chief kicked it out from under the lad’s head. 
He didn’t propose to have his grandson be so effem- 
inate as to indulge himself in the luxury of a pillow 
when everybody else was lying flat on the ground.” 

Whittington grunted. “I don’t see how that ap- 
plies to me.” 

‘Tn this way. You’ve lived too soft. You need 
something to wake you up to the real hardships 
that men have to go through. Then you won’t be 
so fussy over little things. Perhaps I’ve talked 
plainer to you than I should; but I belieye in going 
after a fellow with a club before his face rather than 
a knife behind his back. Now let’s open those 
windows so the fresh air can blow through, build 
a fire in the stove to dry out the damp, and get 
everything shipshape. After supper we’ll go up on 
top of the island and take a look about.” 

It was nearly seven when the sloop was finally 
unloaded and everything stowed under cover. Filippo 
had collected plenty of driftwood, and a fire crackling 
merrily in the rusty stove soon made the cabin dry 
and warm. 

Jim, in his shirt-sleeves, superintended the prep- 
aration of supper. The wall cupboard yielded a 
supply of ordinary dishes, cups, and saucers. There 
3 33 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

were old-fashioned iron knives and forks, iron spoons 
of different sizes, and thick, yellow, earthenware 
mugs. Despite Percy’s slur, everything was clean. 

'‘Make us a pan of biscuit. Budge; and I’ll fry 
some potatoes and broil the steak,” volunteered 
Jim. “After to-night we’ll have to break in some- 
body else to do the cooking. You and I’ll be too 
busy outside.” 

Percy heard and registered a silent vow that the 
cook should not be himself. Pricked by Spurling’s 
earlier remarks, he had taken an active part in un- 
loading the boats, and he had been glad to throw 
himself into one of the despised bunks to rest. 

At last supper was ready. The steak, potatoes, 
and hot biscuit diffused a pleasant aroma through 
the cabin. 

“Pull up your soap-boxes, all hands!” invited 
Spurling. “Don’t be afraid of that steak! There’s 
plenty of it for everybody. It’s liable to be the last 
meat we’ll have for some time. The butcher doesn’t 
go by here very often.” 

The boys made a hearty meal. Even Percy’s 
fastidiousness did not prevent him from eating his 
full share. But he took no part in the jokes flying 
round the table. Jim’s sermon had left him rather 
glum. Lane noticed it. 

“Why so distant, Whittington?” he inquired. 

Before Percy could open his mouth to reply a 
black body shot with a squawk through the open 
door and alighted on the comer of the table close 
to Percy’s elbow. 

“Hullo! This must be Oso!” exclaimed Jim. 

The crow croaked hoarsely. On Percy’s plate lay 
34 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 



a single morsel of steak, the choicest of his helping, 
reserved till the last. Seeing the bird’s beady black 
eyes fasten upon it he made a quick movement to 
impale it with his fork. But Oso was quicker still. 
Down darted his sharp beak and snatched the tit- 


bit from under the very points of the tines. A single 
gulp and the meat was gone. 

A roar of laughter went round the table. Starting 
up furiously, Percy aimed a blow at the crow. But 
the bird eluded him and scaled out of the door with 
a triumphant screech. Budge proffered mock con- 
solation. 

“Percy,” said he, “that was the best piece in the 
whole steak. I saw you saving it until the last. 
Too bad, old man! Now you’ll have to eat crow to 
get it.” 


35 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

''I’ll wring that thief’s neck if I can catch him,” 
vowed the angry Whittington. 

''Guess we can trust Oso not to leave his neck 
lying round where you can get hold of it,” observed 
Lane. ' ' Come on ! Let’s you and I wash the dishes !’ ’ 

''Dishes nothing!” snarled Percy. 

Stalking out, he gathered a handful of convenient 
pebbles and lay in wait for the culprit. But the 
crow had disappeared. 

''I’ll get even with him later,” muttered Whitting- 
ton. 

He remained sulkily outside, taking no part in 
clearing away the supper-table. At half past seven 
the others joined him. 

''Feeling better, old man?” queried Lane, so- 
licitously. 

''FaU in, Whittington,” said Jim. ''We’re going 
on a tour of inspection.” 

"Wait a minute,” remarked Lane. ''We’ve had 
our house-warming. The next thing is to christen 
the place.” 

Dragging out a soap-box, he mounted it, produced 
from his pocket a piece of red chalk, and traced in 
large letters over the door, "Camp Spurling.” 

"Now we’re ofiE!” said he. "Welcome to our 
city! Watch us grow!” 

"Come on!” urged Jim. "We want to look the 
island over before dark.” 

The party walked west along the sea-wall and 
proceeded in single file up a steep path to the highest 
part of the promontory. 

"Brimstone Point,” said Jim. "Best view on the 
island from here.” 


36 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 


He began pointing out its different features. 

“That little nubble almost west, sticking up so 
black against the sunset ’s Seal Island. Matinicus 
is right behind it. Up there on the horizon, just a 
trifle west of north, are the Camden Hills; you 
look exactly over Vinalhaven to see them. North 
across the pasture is Isle au Haut that we came by 
this afternoon. Beyond is Stonington. About time 
the lights were Ht — Yes, there’s Saddleback! See 
it twinkling west of Isle au Haut. Now look sharp 
a little south of west and you’ll see Matinicus Rock 
glimmering; two lights, but they seem like one from 
here. Wouldn’t think they were almost a himdred 
feet above water, would you? They look pretty 
good to a man when he’s running in from outside 
on a dark night.” 

It was a magnificent evening, the air clear as 
crystal, the sky without a cloud. Gulls were wheeling 
and screaming about the promontory, their cries 
mingling with the rote of surf at its base. Sheep 
bleated from the pasture. A hawk sailed slowly in 
from the ocean and disappeared in the woods behind 
the eastern point. From under the boys’ feet rose the 
fragrance of sweet grass and pennyroyal. Tall 
mullein stalks reared their spires on the hillside; and 
here and there were little plats white with thick 
strawberry blossoms. 

The boys gazed their fill. Gradually the red sky 
darkened and the stars began to come out. Saddle- 
back and Matinicus Rock gleamed more brightly. 
A cool breeze from the south sprang up. Jim rous^ 
himself. 

‘ ‘ Guess we won’t have time to look about any more 
37 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

to-night. Never mind! There are evenings enough 
ahead of us before September. One thing out here — 
no matter how hot the day may be, it’s always cool 
after dark. Let’s be getting back to camp!” 

Two small kerosene-lamps from the cupboard 
made the cabin seem actually cheerful. Percy dug 
into one of his suit -cases and produced a pack of 
cards. 

‘ ‘ Let’s have a game, fellows ! What shall it be ? ” 

** Might as well put those up, Whittington,” said 
Spurling. “We’re going to turn in as soon as we get 
things arranged. We’ve a busy to-morrow before 
us.” 

Somewhat disappointed, Percy put the cards back. 
Taking four wooden toothpicks, Jim broke them into 
uneven lengths. He grasped them in his right hand 
so that the tops formed a straight line. 

“Now we’ll draw lots for bunks ! Filippo’s going to 
sleep in the hammock across that comer beyond the 
table, so he won’t be in this. Longest stick is lower 
bunk next the door; second longest, lower bunk 
back; third, upper bunk near door; shortest, other 
upper. Draw, Throppy!” 

Stevens drew; then Budge and Percy followed 
him. They matched sticks. Percy got the lower 
near the door, with Budge over him; while Spurling 
drew the back lower, and Stevens the one above that. 

“Percy and I are the lucky ones,” said Jim. “We 
can try this a month, then have a shake-up to give 
you top men a chance nearer the floor.” 

Percy pulled out his wrapper^ and tobacco. Spur- 
ling nipped his preparations in the bud. 

“No cigarettes in here!” 

38 


TARPAULIN ISLAND 


“Can’t I smoke just one?” 

“Not inside this cabin. It’s too close. We might 
as well make that a permanent rule.” 

“All right! You’re the doctor! But I thought it 
might help kill this smell of tarred rope.” 

“I like the tarred rope better than I do the ciga- 
rettes.” 

Percy went outside and burned his coffin-nail un- 
sociably. When he came back the cabin was ship- 
shape for the night. Jim was setting the alarm- 
clock. Percy, watching him, thought he detected a 
mistake. 

“You’ve got the V on the wrong side of the I,” 
he said. “IV doesn’t stand for six.” 

“But I didn’t mean six,” retorted Spvu-ling. “I 
meant four. Now you see why we haven’t any time 
for card-pla3mig. And as soon as we’re really at work 
we’ll be getting up a good deal earlier than that. 
Turn in, fellows!” 

He extinguished one of the small lamps. 

“You can put out the other one, when you’re 
ready,” said he as he crept into his bunk. 

Following the example of his associates, Percy 
draped his clothing over his soap-box and the lower 
end of his bunk, then blew out the lamp and turned 
in, barking his shins as he did so. He found his couch 
anything but comfortable. A single blanket be- 
tween one’s body and a board does not make the 
board much softer. Neither is a tightly rolled sweater 
an exact equivalent for a feather pillow. Further, 
the comforter over him was none too warm, as two 
windows, opened for ventilation, allowed the cool 
ocean breeze to circulate freely through the cabin. 

39 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

They also admitted numerous mosquitoes, which 
sung and stimg industriously. 

The hours of darkness dragged on miserably. 
Percy dozed and woke, only to doze and wake again. 
An occasional creaking board or muttered exclama- 
tion told that, like himself, his mates were not find- 
ing their first night one of unalloyed comfort. 

Bare feet struck the floor. A match scraped, and 
Percy saw Jim gazing at the alarm-clock. 

“Wiat time is it?” groaned Budge from above. 
‘‘Only ten minutes to twelve.” 

“Gee! I wish it was morning.” 

“Me tool” complained Stevens from the darkness 
aloft. 

Percy echoed the wish, silently but fervently. And 
then in an instant aU their discomfort was forgotten. 
Bursting through the open window, a sudden sound 
shattered the midnight stillness. 

Spang! 


IV 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 

T here was no mistaking that sharp, whip-like 
report. It was the crack of a revolver! 
Breaking the silence at a time when they had 
felt certain that the nearest human being was miles 
away, the sound had a startling effect on the five 
boys. Not one but felt a thrill of apprehension, 
almost of dread. Who besides themselves was astir 
at so late an hour on that lonely island? Why? 
The weapon that produced the report must have 
been aimed at something. What? For a moment 
they remained silent, breathless. 

Spang! 

A second shot, distant but distinct, rang out from 
beyond the brow of the bank behind the cabin. 
Spurling sprang from his bunk. 

“Boys!” he shouted. “Somebody’s after those 
sheep! Turn out!” 

Hurriedly he began dressing. The other four fol- 
lowed his example, fumbling with clumsy fingers in 
the darkness. Nemo gave a short, sharp bark. 

“Quiet, boy!” ordered Jim; and the dog subsided, 
growling. 

Percy experienced a peculiar shakiness; but he 
dressed with the others. Out here were no police- 
41 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

men or other officers to enforce the laws. Whatever 
was done they must do themselves. 

Jim, his first excitement over, was cool as usual. 

“All dressed, fellows?” he inquired, as calmly as 
if the pursuit of midnight thieves was a common 
incident. 

Everybody was ready. 

“Going to take the dog?” asked Throppy. 

“No! Leave him here! He might bark when we 
didn’t want him to.” 

“Here’s the gun!” volunteered Lane. 

“Don’t want it! If we had it with us, we might 
lose our heads and shoot somebody. Whoever they 
are, they haven’t the least idea there’s any one on 
the island besides themselves. They’ve probably 
landed at the Sly Hole from some vessel that’s ap- 
proached the north shore since it came dark. Hun- 
gry for a little lamb or mutton! But those sheep 
have stood Uncle Tom a good many dollars and he 
can’t afford to lose any of ’em. Where’s that flash- 
Hght?” 

“Here ’tis!” said Budge, passing him the electric 
lantern. 

Jim snapped it quickly on and off again. 

“Righto!” was his verdict. “AU ready? Then 
come on! But first tie that dog to the stove-leg, 
so he won’t bolt out the second we open the door.” 

Throppy fastened Nemo. 

“Quiet now!” cautioned Jim. 

He opened the door carefully, and the five filed 
out into damp, cool, midnight air. 

Stars filled the sky. A gentle wind was blowing 
from the southwest. Nothing broke the stillness 
42 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 

save the low murtnur of the sea on the ledges. With- 
out hesitation Jim led his party at a dog- trot east- 
ward along the beach. When he reached the rocks 
he halted. 

“We’U go straight across to the Sly Hole,’* he 
said. “I know a short cut through the woods. 
Either they’ve killed a sheep already and are carrying 
it down to their boat or they’ve frightened the 
animals so that it ’ll take some time to get near 
enough to ’em again to shoot. What sticks me is why 
they don’t use a shot-gun instead of a revolver. 
Now, boys! Right up over the rocks!” 

It was a rough climb, but soon they were on the 
top of the bluff. Unerringly Jim led them to the 
entrance of a narrow trail penetrating the scrubby 
growth. 

‘ ‘ Look out for yoiu* eyes ! Don’t follow too close !’ ’ 

The pliant, whipping branches emphasized his 
caution. By the time the party gained the north 
shore their hands and faces were badly scratched. 

The little basin of the Sly Hole lay below. Looking 
down, they could make out a dark object at the 
water’s edge. 

“There’s their boat!” whispered Jim. “They’re 
still on the island.” 

Spang! 

Another report from the pasture beyond the ever- 
greens echoed emphatic confirmation to his state- 
ment. Jim took two steps toward the sound, then 
stopped. 

“Not yet! I know a better way. Stay here and 
keep watch.” 

He scrambled down to the beach. There was a 
43 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

slight grating of gravel, and presently the boat was 
afloat. Noiselessly, under Spurling’s skilful sculling, 
it slipped out of the cove and vanished behind the 
ledges to the east. Before long Jim was back with his 
companions. 

“I’ve made their dory fast in a Httle gulch among 
the rockweed,” said he. “They’d have a hard time 
to find it unless somebody told ’em where it is. 
They can’t get away without having a reckoning 
with us.” 

Spang-spang-spang! 

Tliree reports in quick succession. Jim laughed. 

“Wasting a lot of cartridges! Must want that 
mutton pretty bad ! Either they’re awful poor shots 
or they’ve made the sheep so wild they can’t get 
an3rwhere near ’em. There’s their vessel!” 

The boys’ eyes followed his pointing finger. Not 
far offshore were the vague outlines of a schooner. 

“All black!” said Jim. “Not a light of any sort! 
That looks bad. Besides being against the law, it 
shows there’s some reason why they don’t want to 
be recognized. I don’t know what l^d of scalawags 
we’re up against, but we’ve got to be mighty careful.” 

Percy felt a strange sinking at the pit of his stom- 
ach. To be plunged into an encoimter with a gang 
of unknown ruffians on his first night offshore was 
more than he had bargained for. For a minute Jim 
stood thinking. 

“I’m almost sorry we didn’t take that shot-gun!” 
he muttered. “No, I’m not, either! We might be 
tempted to use it, and that ’d be worse than losing 
every sheep on the island. Hold on! I’ve got an 
idea.” 


44 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 


The boys gathered closely round him. 

‘"Listen!” he whispered. “Budge and I will go 
ahead through the woods to the pasttire. You three 
follow close behind. If there's any shooting, throw 
yourselves flat. No use taking chances with such 
fellows as those!” 

Crouching low, sometimes actually creeping, the 
party, Jim and Lane in the lead, made their way 
under the close boughs toward the open. Suddenly 
Jim sank to the ground. Warned by his whisper, the 
others did the same. 

Footsteps were approaching. Then voices in heated 
argument reached their ears. 

“Aw, come on, Cap!” expostulated one unseen 
speaker. “What’s the use chasin’ round over this 
pasture all night? Here we’ve wasted an hour al- 
ready. I’ve fired away all my cartridges, and we 
haven’t nailed a single bleater. We’ve got ’em so 
wild we can’t sneak up within half a mile of ’em. 
Let’s quit it for a bad job, go aboard, and turn in !” 

“Cut it out, Dolph!” impatiently retorted another 
voice. “You’ve got a backbone like a rope! Guess 
if you were footing the grub bill aboard the Silicon 
you wouldn’t be so fussy about being broken of your 
beauty sleep. I’ve paid out all the good dollars for 
stores that I intend to on this trip. You know we’ve 
plenty of ice aboard, and a couple of these sheep ’ll 
furnish enough fresh meat to last us to the Bay of 
Fundy and back. That ought to hit you in a tender 
spot. You’re always the first man down at the table 
and the last to leave it.” 

“You needn’t twit me on my appetite, Bart Brit- 
tler!” exclaimed the other, angrily. “If you weren’t 
45 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

so stingy with the grub on board your old catamaran 
I wouldn’t be hungry all the time. A man who makes 
as much money as you do, runnin’ in — ” 

'‘Stop right there! You know there’s some things 
that were never to be mentioned.” 

“What’s the harm? There’s nobody within 
miles!” 

“That may be. But we can’t be too careful in 
our business. Now what about the sheep?” 

“I’ll stop here half an hour longer. Then I’m go- 
in’ aboard.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You hide in 
the edge of the woods, and I’ll make a circuit and 
drive ’em down to you. Here, take these cartridges 
and my revolver! That ’ll give you two to work 
with. You’ll have to shoot quick when they come.” 

There was a sound of breaking branches. The 
boys flattened themselves on the carpet of needles 
as a man’s body crashed toward them through the 
underbrush. 

“All right!” announced Dolph. “I’ve found a 
good place, close to a sheep-path. Now drive down 
your mutton, and I’ll butcher it as it goes by. Will 
two be enough?” 

“Sure! And that’s two more than I’m afraid you’U 
get, unless you shoot straighter than we’ve done so 
far to-night. It may be twenty minutes before they 
come, for I’m going to make a wide circle to the west, 
so as to get behind ’em.” 

The captain’s footsteps died hollowly away on the 
turf and Dolph settled himself comfortably in his 
chosen ambush, almost within reach of Jim’s hand. 

Five minutes of silence passed. Jim was debating 

46 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 


what he should do. Budge lay close to him, and 
not far back were Throppy, Percy, and Filippo, 
hardly daring to breathe. Circumstances had placed 
one of the marauders so nearly within their grasp 
that a sudden, well-planned attack could hardly fail 
to make him their prisoner. But there must be no 
bimgUng. A man with two loaded rev'olvers, and des- 
perate from panic, would be a dangerous customer 
unless he were overpowered at once. 

It would not do to let too much time go by. Brit- 
tler would soon be returning, driving the sheep 
ahead of him; then they would have two lawless 
men to contend with, instead of one, unless they chose 
to lie quiet and tamely allow the spoilers to make 
off with their booty. 

Jim came to his decision like the snapping of the 
jaws of a steel trap. 

Reaching back, he pressed Budge’s hand, as a 
signal for him to be ready. Budge returned the 
pressure. Dolph stirred and drew a long breath. 
There was a moment of suspense. Overhead, a 
crow cawed harshly. 

Noiselessly Jim rose to his hands and knees and 
crept forward. The small twigs and needles, crack- 
ling imder his weight, sounded in his ears like ex- 
ploding fireworks. He stopped; went on again; 
stopped; went on again. How could Dolph fail 
to hear him coming? The distance was less than 
two yards, but to the crawling lad it seemed far 
longer. 

Now he was close behind the unconscious bandit. 
He straightened up, setting his right foot squarely 
on the ground. As he did so a little branch snapped. 

47 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Dolph, startled, turned his head. Before he could 
lift a finger Jim was upon him like a panther. 

There was an indistinct cry of alarm. 

Spang! 

Off went a revolver, discharged at random, and 
the two were struggling in a confused heap under the 
low boughs. 

It was a short fight. A third figiire launched itself 
into the m^lee. Though not nearly so strong as 
Jim, Budge alone would have been a good match 
for any average man, and the two of them together 
speedily vanquished Dolph. A firm hand was 
pressed over his mouth and he was relieved of his 
automatics. Finding that his captors were not dis- 
posed to injiu*e him, he soon ceased his struggles. 

Silence again. One of the would-be plunderers 
and the weapons of both were in the boys* hands. 
What should they do next? 

'‘Hi! Hi! Scat, you brutes! Get a move on!’* 

Brittler’s voice shattered the midnight stillness as 
he came, driving the sheep before him. From their 
covert the boys could look across the pasture and 
see the black, leaping shapes fast drawing nearer. 
It was high time to prepare to meet their second 
foe. 

“Throppy, Whittington, Filippo! Come here! 
Quick!” 

They came, Percy in the rear, his knees shaking. 

“Budge, can the four of you handle this man if I 
let go?” 

“Easy!” 

“Keep his mouth shut till I tell you he can 
open it!” 


48 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 
“All right!’’ 

Lane’s hand replaced Jim’s over Dolph’s lips. 
The other three grasped him wherever they could 
find a chance. It would not have taken much to 
shake off Percy’s trembling grip, but the prisoner 
was content to remain quiet. 

There was a patter of hoofs; the sheep were 
coming. Soon they were flitting by the ambush, 
shying off as their keen senses wam^ them of pos- 
sible danger. Again they scattered toward the 
northwest end of the island. After them danced 
Brittler, roaring with anger. 

“What are you waiting for, you numskull?” he 
cried. “Why didn’t you shoot? I heard you fire 
once some minutes ago, and thought you might 
have been aiming at a stray one. I had almost the 
whole flock bunched right before me. You couldn’t 
get a better chance if you waited a week. Now I’ve 
got to waste another half-hour chasing ’em round 
again. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Why 
don’t you speak?” 

He was within five yards of the silent group 
under the spruces when Spurling’s voice rang sharply 
out : 

“Halt there!’' 

At the same instant he flashed the ray from his 
electric lantern straight into the captain’s face. 

Brittler stopped short, as if struck by lightning. 
His jaw dropped, and a ludicrous look of alarm and 
bewilderment overspread his features. 

“Take your hand off his mouth. Budge,” ordered 
Jim, “and let him tell the captain what’s happened.” 

Thus adjured, Dolph spoke: 

4 49 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

‘ ‘ I’ve been taken prisoner, Captain. They jumped 
on me in the dark and I had a chance to fire only 
one shot. I think there’s at least half a dozen of 
’em, and they’ve got both our revolvers, so we haven’t 
a chance. That’s all there is to it.” 

Brittler had recovered from his first panic. He 
bristled up with pretended indignation. 

“What do you mean, whoever you are, by jump- 
ing on us this way ? And take that light off my face ! 
I don’t Hke it.” 

Spurling did not remove the steady ray from the 
features of the irate captain. He waited a moment 
before replying. 

“Captain Brittler,” he said, “you and Dolph 
came to steal sheep, and it isn’t your fault that you 
haven’t been able to do it. You thought there was 
nobody on this island and that you coiild kill and 
take to suit yourselves. You’ve been caught red- 
handed. By good rights you ought to be turned over 
to the sheriff. We’ll let you go this time, but if 
we catch you here on such an errand again you’ll 
have a chance to tell your story before a jiuy.” 

“How’d you come to know my name?” blustered 
the captain. “I s’pose you’ve been pumping that 
mealy-mouthed landlubber of a Dolph.” 

“Dolph hasn’t said a word till he spoke to you 
just now. He couldn’t. I guess we understand each 
other, so you and he had better start for the Silicon, 
You’ll find your dory in the rockweed about fifty 
feet east of the cove. I’ll keep your revolvers a few 
days, and then mail them to you at the Rockland 
post-office. You can get ’em there. Better go now! 
Turn that man loose. Budge!” 

50 


MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 


Muttering vengeance, Dolph and the captain dis- 
appeared in the direction of the Sly Hole. After 
giving them ample time to find the dory, the boys 
quietly made their way to the north shore. 

A boat with two men was visible, rowing out 
to the Silicon. As soon as it reached its des- 
tination the schooner got under way and proceeded 
eastward. 

“I don’t like the looks of that craft,” said Spurling. 
“There’s something suspicious about her. Did you 
hear what Dolph said to the captain about maldng 
money? They’re engaged in some land of smuggling, 
or I’U eat my hat! But what it can be I haven’t 
any idea. Well, we’re lucky to be rid of ’em so easily. 
Guess they’ll give Tarpaulin Island a wide berth 
after this. And it’s dollars to doughnuts the captain 
never inquires after those revolvers at the Rockland 
office. I didn’t feel it was quite safe to give ’em back 
to him just now, but I didn’t want to take ’em away 
for good. He can do as he pleases about sending 
for ’em.” 

He yawned. 

“It’s past one, and we’d better be getting back to 
camp, or we won’t be in condition for our busy 
day to-morrow. Come on, boys!” 

Slowly, and a trifle weariedly, the five made their 
way across the island. Even though the Are in the 
stove had gone out long since, the warmth of the 
cabin felt good to them. 

“Well, Whittington,” remarked Spurling as they 
once more crept into their bunks, “how do you like 
your first night on Tarpaulin? Some life out here, 
after all, eh?” 


51 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Percy had recovered his assurance. Now that the 
experience was over he rather enjoyed it. 

“Not so bad/’ he replied. 

Before he went to sleep he lay for some time 
thinking. 


V 


GETTING READY 

A PERSISTENT metallic whirring broke rudely 
in upon the dreams of the heavy sleepers in 
Camp Spurling. It was four o’clock. It seemed to 
Percy as if he had never before found so much 
trouble in getting his eyes open. 

“Choke that clock off, somebody!” shouted Lane 
from overhead. “I’m not deaf, but I shall be if this 
hullabaloo keeps on much longer.” 

Spurling, who was already half-dressed, checked 
the alarm. The red rays of the morning sun, striking 
through the eastern window, bathed everything in 
crimson. The minds of the boys turned naturally to 
the foiled thieves. 

“Where do you think the Silicon is?” asked 
Throppy. 

“Twenty-five miles east, and making for Fundy 
as fast as sail and gasolene ’U take her,” replied Jim. 
“She can’t go any too far or fast to suit me.” 

A hearty breakfast of fried bacon, hot biscuits, 
and coffee made the drowsy crowd feel better. 

“Now,” said Spurling, “we’ve got a big day’s 
work ahead of us, and the sooner we start on it the 
better. We want to begin as quick as we can to round 
up some of those dollars that are finning and crawling 
53 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

in to us, so we mustn’t waste any time in getting our 
trawls and traps overboard. First of all, we need 
bait. We can buy hake heads for our lobster-traps 
from the fish-wharf at Matinicus, and herring for the 
trawls from one of the weirs at Vinalhaven. That 
means traveling over forty miles; but it’s fine 
weather, and we ought to do it easily. Besides, it ’ll 
give you fellows a good chance to learn how to handle 
a power-sloop. We’ll take the trawls with us, and 
bait ’em on the way back, so as not to lose any time; 
and we’ll set most of those lobster-traps this after- 
noon.” 

They all went over to the fish-house, and Jim 
swimg the door wide open. Five great hogsheads 
inside caught Percy’s eye. 

“What ’re those for?” he asked. 

“Holding fish. Each one ’ll take care of what two 
thousand pounds of round fish ’ll make after they’re 
dressed and salted.” 

“What do you mean by round fish?” 

“Just as they come out of the water, before they’re 
cleaned.” 

“What ’re those half-barrels, full of small rope?” 

“Trawl-tubs; and those coils inside are the trawls. 
Each tub holds about five hundred fathoms of 
ground-line, with a thirty - eight - inch ganging, or 
short line with a hook on its end, tied every five feet ; 
so there ’re between five hundred and six hundred 
hooks to every tub. One man alone can bait and 
handle four tubs of trawl. Two of us are going to 
fish together, so we ought to be able to swing six 
tubs without any trouble.” 

Percy looked about the house. Other barrels 
54 


GETTING READY 


stood there; a net was draped over the beams; 
many coils of small rope were hung along the walls 
or piled on the floor. His attention was attracted 
by a large heap of pecuHarly shaped pieces of wood. 
Each was eighteen inches long, five inches square 
at one end, and tapered almost to a point at the 
other, near which a hole was bored; they were 
painted white, encircled by a single green stripe, 
and bore the brand '‘SP.’' 

‘'Cedar lobster-buoys,’* said Jim. “SP’s my 
Uncle Tom’s brand. Every man has a different 
kind, so his floats won’t get mixed with anybody 
else’s. Now let’s take these tubs of trawl aboard 
the sloop.” 

At six the Barracouta, carrying the five boys and 
towing the dory, started from Sprowl’s Cove for 
Matinicus. It was so calm that the sails were of 
little assistance, and they had to depend almost en- 
tirely on the engine. Roimding Brimstone Point, 
they headed slightly north of west for Seal Island, 
about six miles away. 

Everybody took his turn at steering, Jim acting as 
instructor. 

“Any one of you may be called on to handle 
this boat alone some time in the next three months, 
and you can’t begin learning how any too early.” 

Percy’s experience with automobiles stood him in 
good stead. He was naturally interested in machin- 
ery, and soon mastered the details of the Barracouta's 
engine. The others also showed themselves apt 
pupils. 

At half past seven the high cliffs of Seal Island 
lay to the north. Passing for a mile along its rocky 
55 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

shores, they kept on toward Matinicus, now rising 
into view. Jim pointed to a breaker a little south of 
their course. 

“Malcolm’s Ledges! A bad bunch of rocks. 
Years ago a fishing-schooner struck there in the 
night. Crew thought at first they’d reached safety, 
but they soon found it was only a half-tide ledge. 
The vessel heaved over it when the water rose, and 
sunk, so that only her topmast stuck out. One 
man, the sole survivor, hung to that. He was taken 
off in the morning, but his arm was worn almost to 
the bone by the swaying of the mast.” 

Farther on they passed the long, treeless, granite 
hump of Wooden Ball, with its few lobstering-shacks, 
and sheep grazing in its grassy valleys. Ledge after 
ledge went by, until at last they entered the little 
rocky haven of Matinicus, crammed with moored 
sloops and power-boats, and ran in beside the high, 
granite fish-pier at its head. 

Percy found everything new and strange — the 
stilted wharves on the ledges, heaped with lobster- 
traps and festooned with buoys of all shapes and 
colors; the fish-pier with its open shed, sheltering 
the dark, discolored hogsheads roimded up with 
salted fish; the men in oilskin “petticoats,” busy 
with splitting-knives on hake and cod and pollock 
and haddock, brought in by the noisy power-boats; 
thelighthouse-keepersfrom Matinicus Rock,five miles 
south, in military caps, oilskins, and red rubber 
boots, towing a dory to be dumped full of slimy hake 
heads for lobster bait; the post-office and general 
store above the cove, and the spruce-crowned rocks 
beyond it. 


56 



THE CAMP AT SPROWL’s COVE 





GETTING READY 

Jim pointed out a bronze tablet on a slanting 
ledge. 

'‘In memory of Ebenezer Hall, first English settler 
on Matinicus. He lived with his family in a log 
house at the head of this cove. In 1757 some In- 
dians were camped on one of the Green Islands, six 
miles or so northwest, living on the eggs of seabirds. 
Hall went over to the island one day and set fire to 
the grass, destroying the nests and eggs. Next 
morning five Indians in two canoes came over to 
Matinicus to take revenge. They landed on this 
beach, built a fire, and began cooking their break- 
fast. Hall had barricaded himself indoors, but he 
could put his head up through a little lookout in 
the top of his cabin. He wanted to shoot the In- 
dians, but his wife wouldn’t let him. After they had 
eaten they scattered and opened fire on the house 
from different points. Hall replied. Finally the 
Indians were reduced to their last half-bullet. One 
of them lay flat in that little hollow, while the others 
pretended to launch their canoes. Hall stuck his 
head up through the lookout to see what was going 
on, and the ambushed Indian sent the half -bullet 
through his brain. He dropped back inside. They 
wouldn’t have known he was hit if his wife hadn’t 
cried out for quarter. They burst open the door and 
carried her off, with her daughter and one son. 
Another boy escaped out of a back window and hid 
in the swamp, and they couldn’t find him. After- 
ward he settled on an island close to Vinalhaven, 
where Heron’s^ Neck Light is now.” 

“Hall had better not have burned that grass,” 
said Percy. 


57 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

*‘Yes,” replied Jim. *‘If he had minded his own 
business and let the Indians alone he wouldn’t have 
stopped that last half -bullet.” 

The fish-pier was in charge of a superintendent, 
employed by a large Gloucester concern. Jim ar- 
ranged to sell here whatever fish they might catch 
dining the summer. He also bought several bushels 
of salt, as well as two barrels of hake heads to start 
them in lobstering. The Barracouta's tank was filled 
with twenty-five gallons of gasolene, and six five- 
gallon cans were purchased besides. The boat would 
require about seven gallons a day for ordinary fish- 
ing, so this would supply them for more than a 
week. 

“How often do you get the mail?” asked Jim of 
the storekeex)er, who was also postmaster. 

“Three times a week by steamer from Rockland — 
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.” 

As Spurling had decided to bring his fish over 
every Friday, they would thus be enabled to 
keep in fairly close touch with the outside world. 
Percy, however, was somewhat disgusted. ' He 
had gotten into the habit of thinking he could 
not live without a daily paper. While the others 
were purchasing various supplies, including some 
mosquito netting, he replenished his stock of 
cigarettes. 

“Anybody here got a wireless?” inquired Throppy. 

“No, but there’s one on Criehaven, three miles 
south.” 

Throppy had planned to install an outfit on Tar- 
paulin, and had already written home to have his 
plant there dismantled by his brother, and its parts 
58 


GETTING READY 


forwarded by express to Matinicus. For an amateur 
he was an expert operator. 

The Barracouta was already well loaded when, 
with the dory towing behind, she rounded the granite 
breakwater and started for Vinalhaven, twelve miles 
away. At noon they ran in alongside Hardy’s weir 
on the eastern shore of the island. Several bushels 
of glittering herring were dipped aboard, and the 
heavily freighted sloop at once swimg away on her 
fifteen-mile jaunt to Tarpaulin. 

‘‘Now,” said Jim, as soon as they were well clear 
of the island, “I’ll teach you how to bait up. Take 
the tiller, Filippo.” 

Emptying out the ground-line from one of the 
tubs, he took a small herring in his left hand, and 
with his right grasped the shank of the hook on the 
first ganging; he forced the sharp point into the 
fish until the barb had gone clean through and 
the herring was impaled firmly. Then he dropped 
the hook into the empty tub, giving the ganging a 
deft swing, so that it fell in a smooth coil. He re- 
peated the process swiftly, while the others watched 
him with interest. 

“How many hooks can you bait in a minute?” 
asked Budge. 

“Time me.” 

Budge followed the second-hand of his watch 
while the coil in the tub grew larger. 

“Better than ten a minute,” he announced. 
“That’s going some.” 

“It’s slow to what some fishermen can do. It 
means about an hour to a tub. Catch hold, you fel- 
lows, and see how fast you can do it. Might as well 
59 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

make a beginning. You’ll have plenty of experience 
before the summer’s ended. I’ll take her awhile, 
Filippo.” 

The other boys, Percy included, were soon hard 
at work, each on his own tub. At first they made a 
slow, awkward business of it. Impatient exclama- 
tions rose as the sharp hooks were stuck into clumsy 
fingers. Finally Percy threw down his trawl in a 
fit of anger. 

“I’ve had enough of this! I didn’t come out here 
to butcher myself.” 

“You can steer,” said Jim, quietly. “I’ll take your 
place.” 

Percy stepped to the helm, and Jim began baiting 
again. The others stuck to their unfamiliar task, 
despite its discoturagements, and were soon making 
fair headway. Percy eyed them sulkily. His pricked 
fingers smarted. The boat rolled and pitched on 
the old swell, making him a trifle seasick. A wave 
of disgust swept over him. This was no place for 
the son of a millionaire. He wished himself back on 
the land. 

By the time they reached Tarpaulin, at about half 
past four, aU the six trawls were baited. 

“We won’t set them till day after to-morrow,” 
determined Jim. “Guess we can find enough work 
to keep us busy ashore till then.” 

There was no doubt about that. Until supper- 
time various odd jobs kept everybody occupied. 
Most important of all, the mosquito netting was cut 
and tacked over the three windows. 

“Now we can have plenty of fresh air with the 
mosquitoes strained out of it,” said Jim. 

6o 


GETTING READY 


Boughs of spruce and fir were brought from the 
woods and strewn in the bunks under the blankets. 
That night the boys turned in early and slept like 
the dead. Even Percy could find little fault with his 
pillow and mattress of fragrant needles. 

In the morning he took a swim. The water was 
too cold for comfort, and inadvertently he ran into 
a school of jellyfish, from which he emerged feeling 
as if he were on fire all over. He dressed hurriedly, 
shivering and disgruntled. The novelty of Tarpaulin 
was wearing off, and he hoped heartily that he would 
soon be in a more interesting place. A month there 
would drag horribly. 

That forenoon the inside of the cabin was put 
to rights. The spring was cleaned out and stoned 
up. Under Jim’s direction the boys gathered a heap 
of driftwood and dragged it up to the highest part 
of Brimstone Point. There a beacon was built, and 
kindling placed beneath it. 

'‘That ’ll serve as a lighthouse in case any of us 
get caught out at night and lose our way,” said Jim. 

The remainder of the morning was spent in 
fitting up the lobster - traps with warps, toggles, 
and buoys. 

During dinner the summer’s work was discussed 
and the boys were allotted their respective duties. 
To Jim fell naturally the oversight of the fishing 
and lobstering. Lane was to receive and disburse 
all moneys, and have general charge of the business 
matters of the concern. Throppy, because of his 
mechanical and inventive turn of mind, was in- 
trusted with the duty of seeing that the cabin, the 
boats, and all the gear were kept in first-class shape. 

6l 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

‘‘Now/’ concluded Jim, “so far the most important 
position of all has gone begging. Who’ll be cook? 
I Whittington, it lies between you and Filippo.” 

“You can strike my name from the ballot at the 
go-off,” stated Percy, promptly. “I never even 



boiled an egg in my life, and I don’t intend to begin 
now.” 

“That narrows it down to Filippo,” said Jim. 
‘ ‘ What do you say ? Will you cook for us ?” 

The Italian’s melancholy olive face Hghted up 
with pleasure. 

“5f, 5i7” he exclaimed, gladly. “I will cook.” 
“Good enough! You’re elected, then! We’U all 
tell you everything we know. Here’s an old cook- 
book on the shelf, and we’ll teach you the recipes. 
That leaves Whittington for general-utility man. 
He’ll be our hewer of wood and drawer of water, 
to say nothing of washing the dishes. We’ll all feel 
62 


GETTING READY 


free to call on him whenever any of us gets into a 
tight place. How does that hit you, Whittington?** 

* ‘ N ever touched me ! I ’ m no servant . ’ * 

“What will you do, then?*’ inquired Jim, pointedly. 

“Just what I please, and not a thing besides,** re- 
plied Percy, with equal directness. 

The others exchanged looks, but Jim said no 
more. 

The greater part of the afternoon was devoted to 
setting the lobster-traps. They were loaded on the 
sloop, dory, and pea-pod, taken out, and dropped 
overboard around the island, brown bottles, of which 
there was a generous supply in the shed, being fas- 
tened to the warps for “toggles,** to hold them off 
the bottom, so that they might not catch on the 
rocks. By five all the traps were set. 

“You and Throppy can pull these to-morrow 
morning. Budge,** said Jim, and he gave them brief 
directions. “I’ll make a trip with you myself the next 
day. But to-morrow Whittington and I are going 
to see what we can get on the trawl.** 

After an early supper they climbed the eastern 
point. The sheep, which were feeding on its top, 
scampered off at their approach, their retreat covered 
by the ram, with shaking head. Nemo rushed, 
barking, after the flock, only to be butted ignomin- 
iously head over heels and to retreat, yelping, to the 
beach. 

“Bully for Aries!** laughed Throppy. 

“Who’s Aries?” asked Percy. 

“The ram, of course! Where’s your Latin?” 

“Never heard the word. Where do these sheep 
drink, anyway? Out of the spring?” 

5 63 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“No,” replied Jim. “The dew on the grass gives 
them all the moisture they need.” 

Sandpeeps were teetering along the ledges below. 
Two seals bobbed their round, black heads in the 
stud at the promontory’s foot. A mile to the south 
rose the spout of a whale. 

“Many craft go by here?” inquired Budge. 

“Plenty. Fishing-schooners, tugs with their tows, 
yachts, tramp steamers, sailing-vessels from the 
Bay of Fundy for Boston, and every little while a 
smack or power-boat. The ocean liners to Portland 
pass about fifteen miles south. So we oughtn’t to 
be lonesome.” 

On the highest part of the point Throppy found 
a dead spruce about twenty feet tall, which he 
picked as a mast for his wireless. Its top would 
be at least sixty feet above the cabin, so he could 
talk over twenty-five miles. He had brought with 
him foiu* htmdred feet of copper bell-wire and a 
dozen or so cleat insulators. He cut two spruce 
spreaders, and stnmg his antennae. Then he made 
a hole through the cabin wall, improvised an insu- 
lator out of a broken bottle, and a rough table out 
of a spare box, and was ready to install his batteries 
and instruments as soon as they should arrive. 

The boys returned to the cabin. 

“How about those conditions, Whittington?” 
asked Budge. “Going to begin making ’em up?” 

“No hurry about that,” responded Percy, in- 
differently. 

He went outside to smoke a cigarette. The bull- 
frogs were singing in the marsh. Inside, Roger was 
making a start on teaching Filippo Enghsh, and 
64 


GETTING READY 


learning a little Italian in return. Throppy was 
tuning his violin. He played a short selection, and 
then the boys turned in. 

'‘To-morrow we start fishing in dead earnest,’' 
said Jim. “Whittington and I’ll get up at midnight, 
and Filippo ’U have to give us breakfast. You 
other fellows won’t need to turn out till four. Here’s 
hoping for good luck all roimd!” 

Percy made a wry face. The hour for rising did 
not sotmd good to him, but there was no harm in 
tr5dng it once. After that he would see. Soon all 
were sound asleep, lulled by the murmiir of the surf. 


VI 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 

**^URN out, Whittington! All aboard for the 

1 fishing-grounds!’* 

Spurling’s voice, reinforcing the last echoes of the 
alarm-clock, dispelled Percy’s inclination to roll over 
for another nap. Jim’s strong tones carried a sug- 
gestion of authority which the younger lad was half 
minded to resent. He swallowed his pride, however, 
rolled out, and dressed. It was only a half-hour 
after midnight when he sat down with Jim to a 
breakfast of warmed-over beans, com -bread, and 
coffee, prepared by Filippo. Budge and Throppy 
were sleeping sotmdly. • They would not get up until 
three hours later. Percy envied them, but he ate a 
good meal. 

'‘Now,” directed Jim, “pull on those rubber boots 
and get into your oil-clothes. You’ll see before 
long why they’re useful. Trawling’s a cold, wet, 
dirty business, and you want to be well prepared for 
it. And don’t forget those nippers ! They’ll protect 
your hands from the chafe of the line.” 

Taking buoys, anchors, and other gear from the 
fish-house, they got into the dory and rowed out to 
the Barracouta, The six tubs of trawl, baited two 
afternoons before, were already on board. They 
66 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


stowed everjrthing in its place, then headed out of the 
cove, towing the dory. 

It was a clear, cool night. A light wind was blow- 
ing from the north, but the sea was fairly smooth. 

'‘Guess we’ll run down to Clay Bank,” said Spur- 
ling. “It’s only six miles to the southward. We 
ought to get a good set there.” 

Steadily they plowed on. It was Percy’s first ex- 
perience in a small boat on the midnight ocean, and 
he felt something akin to awe as they breasted the 
long swells, heaving in slowly and gently, yet resist- 
lessly. Down to the horizon all around arched the 
deep blue firmament, spangled with stars. Matinicus 
Rock glittered in the west, while just beyond the 
shoulder of Brimstone Point, Saddleback Light, al- 
most level with the sea, kept vanishing and reap- 
pearing. 

As the Barracouta forged forward her prow started 
two diverging lines of phosphorescent bubbles and 
her wake resembled a trail of boiling flame. Percy 
called Jim’s attention to the display. 

“Yes,” remarked the latter, “the water’s firing in 
good shape to-night.” 

There was a sudden splash to starboard. A gleam- 
ing body several feet long rolled up above the surface; 
a grunting sigh broke the silence; and the apparition 
disappeared. 

“What’s that?” demanded the startled Percy. 

' ' Porpoise ! ‘ Puffing pig. ’ ’ * 

For over an hour Jim held the sloop to an exact 
course by means of his compass. At half past two 
he stopped the engine. 

“Well, I guess we’re here!” 

67 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

** We’re here, fast enough!” assented Percy, staring 
about. “But where’s here? Doesn’t look any dif- 
ferent to me from anywhere else.” 

“Clay Bank.” 

With his sounding-lead Jim tried the depth of the 
water. 

“Thought so! Fifty fathoms!” 

He prepared at once to set the trawl. Dropping the 
outer jib and mainsail, he jogged slowly before the 
wind imder the jumbo, or inner jib. 

“Now let her go!” 

Over splashed the buoy, an empty pickle - keg, 
painted red, and drifted astern. Next, down went 
the light anchor. As soon as it reached bottom Jim 
lifted the first tub of trawl to the wash-board. Then 
with the heaving-stick, eighteen inches long and 
whittled to a point, he began to flirt overboard the 
coils lying in the tub. 

Percy, holding the lantern, watched the steady 
stream of gangings and herring - baited hooks 
follow one another over the side and sink astern. 
In a surprisingly short time the tub was empty, 
and the five himdred fathoms of trawl, with more 
than a hook to a fathom, lay in a long, straight 
line on the muddy bottom, three hundred feet 
below. 

A second tub trailed after the first, its trawl being 
attached to the end of the other. The four remaining 
tubs followed in order. At the junction of the second 
and third a buoy was fastened, and another between 
the fourth and fifth. To the end of the trawl from 
the sixth and last tub was tied another anchor, and as 
soon as it had reached bottom the last buoy was cast 
68 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


over. They had set almost three and a half miles of 
trawl, bearing more than thirty-one hundred short, 
baited lines. 

“And there’s a good job done!” exclaimed Jim, 
as the last buoy floated astern. “Here’s to a ten- 
pound hake on every hook!” 

“Do you often catch as many as that?” inquired 
Percy, innocently. 

Jim laughed. 

“Hardly! We’ll be more than lucky if we get a 
tenth of that number.” 

Day was now breaking. The night wind had died 
out and, save for the long, oily swells, the sea was 
absolutely calm. Jim started the engine and swung 
the Barracouta round, and they ran leisurely back to 
the other end of the trawl, meanwhile eating the 
lunch Filippo had put up for them. Soon they were 
close to the first red buoy. 

“Now for business!” said Jim. 

He stepped into the dory. 

“Guess you know enough about automobiles, 
Wliittington, to handle this engine. Keep the sloop 
close by and watch me haul. You can take your 
turn when I get tired.” 

Gaiflng the buoy aboard, he pulled up the anchor, 
and soon was hauling in the trawl over the wooden 
roller on the starboard bow. Percy watched with 
all his eyes. This was real Ashing. 

As the line came in Jim coiled it smoothly down 
into an empty tub on a stand in the bow. The first 
three hooks were skinned clean. 

“Something down there, at any rate,” he com- 
mented. 


69 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

The trawl sagged heavily. 

First fish, and a good-sized one! Pretty logy, 
though! Feels like a hake!” 

Percy stared down into the blackish-green water. 
Out of its gloomy depths rose an indistinct shadow, 
gradually assuming definite shape. A blunt, lumpy 
head with big, staring eyes broke the surface ; two 
long streamers hung from beneath the lower jaw. 

Jim reached for his gaff. 

“Hake! And a good one, too!” 

Striking the sharp iron hook through the fish's 
gills, he lifted the slimy gray body over the gimwale, 
unhooked it, and slung it, floundering, over the kid- 
board into the empty space amidships. 

“Fifteen-pounder! Wish we could get a hundred 
more like him ! Hullo ! Who’s next ?” 

The newcomer had a huge reddish-brown head 
with bulging cheeks; his blotched body, adorned 
with wicked spines, tapered slimly off to an incon- 
spicuous tail. 

“Hom-pout! Toad sctdpin! Bah! Get out!” 

Jim slat the fish disgustedly off, and he sculled 
slowly downward. Two more bare hooks. Then 
three hake in succession, the largest not over five 
pounds. On the next line hung a writhing, twisting 
shape about eighteen inches long. With a wry face 
Jim held the thing up for Percy’s inspection. 

“Slime eel! He’s tied the ganging into knots 
and thrown off his jacket. Look here!” 

He stripped from the line a handful of tough, 
stringy slime like a mass of soft soap. 

“How’s that for an overcoat! They always throw 
it off when they get hung up on a trawl.” 

70 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


Flinging the stuff away with a grimace, he rinsed 
his hand and cut off the ganging with his knife 
“No use trying to unhook that fellow!** 

Fathom after fathom of trawl came in over the 
roller. The flapping, dying heap in the center of 



the dory enlarged steadily. Jim was spattered with 
scales from head to foot, and drenched with water 
from the splashing tails. He stopped for a moment 
to rest. 

“Now you see what oil-clothes are good for,** said 
he. “I’ll give you your chance in a little while.** 
Percy had kept the Barracouta near by as Jim 
71 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

pulled the dory along the trawl. He could watch 
the process very well from the sloop, and he was by 
no means anxious for a personal experience with it. 
It looked too much like hard work. He made no 
reply to Jim’s offer. 

Refreshed by his rest, the latter resumed hauling. 
Up came a little cluster of yellow plums, as large 
as small walnuts, each on a stem six inches long, at- 
tached to a brownish bunch of roots. 

“Nigger-heads! Always grow on rocky bottom; 
nicest kind of place for fish. Trawl must have run 
over a patch of ledge. We’re likely to pick up 
something here besides hake. What’s this?” 

A heavy fish appeared, hanging motionless on 
the next ganging. Jim gave a shout. 

“Haddock! Twelve-pounder. Swallowed the 
hook and worried himself to death. Drowned!” 

“Drown a fish!” jeered Percy. 

“Sure you can, any kind of fish, if you only keep 
his mouth open. If this fellow hadn’t taken the 
bait in so deep he’d have been liable to break away. 
Fishermen call ’em ‘butter-mouths,’ their flesh is so 
tender; under jaw’s the only place where a hook 
will hold to lift ’em by. See his red lips, and that 
black streak down each side. And look at these 
two black spots, big as silver dollars, on his shoul- 
ders; that’s where they say the devil got him be- 
tween his thumb and foretoger, but couldn’t hold 
__ »» 
on. 

It was now not far from four o’clock. The sun, 
rising straight from the water, lifted his fiery red 
disk above the eastern horizon. It was a strange 
sight to Percy. The sunrises he had seen could almost 
72 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


be numbered on the fingers of one hand. He yawned. 
The novelty of trawling was wearing off; he wished 
himself back in his hard bunk. 

A heavy, chunky fish of an old-gold color, with an 
almost continuous line of fins, was the next habitant 
of the sea to cross the dory gunwale. Jim held him 
up to show Percy. 

“Look at this cusk! He likes rocky bottom as 
well as a haddock. He’s used to deep water, and 
if you start him up quick his stomach will blow out 
of his mouth like a bladder. I’ve seen ’em so plenty 
that they floated a trawl on top of water for half a 
mile.” 

Seven or eight small haddock and cusk, and then 
once more the trawl began to yield hake. 

“Back again on muddy, bottom,” said Jim. 
“What d’you say to trying your hand at it?” 

Percy agreed, but without enthusiasm. He had 
seen enough to realize that pulling a trawl was no 
sinecure. By means of a fish-fork Jim pitched his 
catch aboard the sloop. The first tub of trawl was 
now full. He transferred it to the Barracouta and 
set an empty tub in its place. 

“You’ll fed fishing is no bed of roses,” he re- 
marked as he dropped down into the standing-room. 

“I beHeve you,” answered Percy, with conviction. 

He started to get aboard the dory. 

“Not there!” warned Jim. “Forward of the Idd- 
board!” 

The caution came too late. Percy stepped into 
the slippery pen from which the fish had just been 
pitched; imluckily, too, he was not careful to plant 
his weight amidships. The dory, overbalanced to 
73 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

starboard, careened suddenly, and he fell sprawling 
on the sHmy bottom. Jim could not repress an 
exclamation of impatience. 

“Why didn’t you step where I told you?” 

“I didn’t think she’d tip so easy,” retorted Percy, 
angrily. 

In bad humor with himself and things in general, he 
scrambled up and took his place back of the empty 
tub. Jim sheered the Barracouta off. 

“Put on your nippers! If you don’t your hands 
will be raw in a little while.” 

Percy thrust his fingers through the white woolen 
doughnuts, grasped the trawl, and began dragging 
it in over the roller. He made slow, awkward work 
of it. Jim watched him with ill-suppressed impa- 
tience, keeping up a constant stream of necessary 
counsel. 

‘ ‘ Careful ! Don’t jerk so, or you’ll catch your hooks 
in the gunwale. There’s a good-sized one! Don’t 
try to lift him aboard without the gaff. Press your 
hook down and back! Don’t yank it sideways like 
that; you’ll only hook him harder. Coil that line 
away more evenly, or we’ll have a bad mess when we 
come to bait up. Don’t lose that fellow! There he 
goes! Be more careful of the next one!” 

Needful though it was, this quickfire of advice 
rasped on Percy’s temper. The unaccustomed work 
tired him badly. He was soon conscious of a pain 
in his shoulders and across the back of his neck; 
his wrists ached. Every now and then the hard, wiry 
line slipped off the nippers and sawed across his 
smarting fingers or palms. But pride kept him dog- 
gedly pulling. 


74 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


A dozen hake of various sizes lay behind him in 
the pen when a flat, kite-shaped fish, four feet long, 
with a caricature of a human face beneath its head, 
came scaling up through the water. 

** What’s that?” he gasped in amazement. 

“Skate I** 

“Shall i keep him?” 

“Keep him? No! Unless you want to eat him 
yourself.” 

Bunglingly Percy tried to dismiss his unwelcome 
catch, but he made slow work of extricating the 
deeply swallowed hook. Jim had stopped the Bar- 
racouta a few feet off. With the agony that an 
expert feels at the unskilful butchery of a task by an 
amateur, he watched his mate’s awkward attempts. 
At last he could stand it no longer. 

“Come aboard the sloop, Whittington,” he or- 
dered. “I’ll finish pulling the trawl.” 

Percy obeyed sullenly. He had almost reached 
his limit of physical endurance, and he was only too 
glad of relief for his smarting skin and aching mus- 
cles. Fishing was a miserable business, and he 
wanted no part of it; on that he was fully decided. 
But even if a job is unpleasant, a man would rather 
resign than be discharged. Jim’s abruptness hurt 
his pride; the slight rankled. 

From the Barracouta he somewhat enviously 
watched Spurling deftly unhook the skate. The 
remainder of the trawl was pulled in in silence. Percy 
kept the sloop at a distance that discouraged speech, 
closing the gap only when Jim signaled that he wished 
to discharge his cargo. By ten o’clock the last hook 
was reached, anchor and buoy taken aboard, and the 
75 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Barracouta, with two thousand pounds of fish heaped 
in her kids and towing astern in the dory, headed 
for Tarpaulin Island. 

The trip home was a glum one. Two or three times 
Jim tried to open a conversation, but Percy responded 
only in monosyllables. He was tired and sleepy, 
and felt generally out-of -sorts. So Jim gave it up 
and let him alone. 

They reached Sprowl’s Cove at noon. Budge and 
Throppy had returned some time before from pull- 
ing the lobster- traps; Jim inspected their catch. 

‘ ‘ About forty pounds, ’ ' was his estimate. ‘ ‘ Rather 
slim; but then the traps were down only about twelve 
hoiu*s. We’ll do better after we get fairly started. 
I’m not going trawling to-morrow; so the whole 
crowd can make a lobstering trip in the Barracouta, 
Now let’s have dinner. This afternoon we’U all turn 
to and dress fish.” 

Percy filed a mental negative to the last statement. 
He had decided that, so far at least as Tarpaulin 
Island was concerned, his fishing days were over. 
Nevertheless, he ate a good dinner. 

At one o’clock the four academy boys rowed out 
to the Barracouta, All but Percy had on their oil- 
skin aprons, or petticoats.” 

'‘Where’s your regimentals, Whittington?” asked 
Lane. 

“I’m only going to look on this afternoon,” re- 
plied Percy. 

The other three exchanged surprised glances, but 
made no comments. On board the sloop Jim was 
soon busily engaged in demonstrating the process of 
dressing fish. Budge and Throppy learned quickly. 

76 


TRAWLING FOR HAKE 


Percy’s refusal to take part in the work did not 
prevent him from watching it with interest from the 
cabin roof. 

The fish were split and cleaned. Their heads were 
cut off and thrown into a barrel, to serve later as 
lobster bait, and the livers tossed into pails. Their 
“sounds,” the membrane running along the back- 
bone, were removed and placed in a box. After the 
bodies had been rinsed in a tub of water, and the 
backbones cut out, they were flung into the dory, 
taken ashore and plunged into another tub of water, 
and then salted down in hogsheads. Three pairs of 
hands made speedy work. 

“What do you do with those?” 

Percy pointed to the pails containing the livers. 

“Leave ’em in a barrel in the sun to be tried out,” 
responded Jim. “The oil is worth more than sixty 
cents a gallon.” 

“And those?” 

He indicated the box of “sounds.” 

“Cut ’em open with a pair of shears, press out the 
blood, and spread ’em on wire netting to dry for 
three days ; then sew ’em up in sacks, to be shipped 
to some glue-factory. Four pounds of ’em ’ll bring 
a dollar. These things and some others are the by- 
products of the fishing business. They’re worth 
too much to throw away.” 

Percy’s eye dwelt on the knives and aprons of his 
three associates. 

“I’m glad I don’t have to fish for a Hving,” he 
said. 


VII 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 

P ERCY slept soundly that night. To be sure, 
the alarm routed out the Spurlingites at the un- 
seemly hour of four, but that was far better than 
twelve. After breakfast he enjoyed a cigarette on 
the beach while the others were helping Filippo clear 
away. It was a calm, beautiful morning, and as 
young Whittington gazed over the smooth, blue sea 
he felt that even a fisherman’s life might have its 
redeeming featmes. 

At six they all started to make the round of the 
lobster-traps, on the Barracouta. The first string of 
white buoys, striped with green, was encountered off 
Brimstone Point. 

“Here’s where we make a killing,” said Jim. 

As he approached the first buoy he opened his 
switch, stopping the engine. Putting on his woolen 
mittens, he picked up the gaff. Close imder the 
starboard quarter bobbed the brown bottle that 
served as a toggle. Reaching out with his gaif, he 
hooked this aboard, and began hauling in the warp. 
At last the heavily weighted trap started off bottom 
and began to ascend. In a half -minute its end, draped 
with marine growths, broke the surface. 

Holding the trap against the side, Jim tore off 

78 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


its incumbrances. The trailing mass was composed 
principally of irregular, brownish-black, leathery 
sheets at the end of long stems. 

‘ ' Kelp !’ ’ answered Jim to Percy's inquiry. * ‘ Devil's 
aprons! They grow on rocky bottom. I've seen 
a trap so loaded with 'em that you could hardly 
stir it." 

He dragged the lath coop up on the side. It con- 
tained a miscellaneous assortment, the most inter- 
esting objects in which were four or five black, 
scorpion-like shell-fish clinging to the netted heads 
and sprawling on the bottom. Unbuttoning the 
door at the top, Jim darted in his hand and seized 
one of these by its back. Round came the claws, 
wide open, and snapped shut close to his fingers; 
but he had grasped his prize at the one spot where 
the brandishing pincers could not reach him. 

*‘He's a ‘counter,' fast enough! No need of 
measuring him! Must weigh at least two pounds." 

Jim dropped the snapping shell-fish into a tub in 
the standing-room. 

“I thought lobsters were red," remarked Percy. 

“They are — after you boil ’em." 

Spurling's hand went into the trap again. This 
time the result was not so satisfactory. Out came 
a little fellow, full of fight. Jim tested his length 
by pressing his back between the tumed-up ends of 
a brass measure screwed against the side of the 
Standing-room. 

“Thought so! He's a ‘short'!" 

He tossed the lobster overboard. 

“What did you throw him away for?" asked Percy. 
“Isn’t he good to eat?" 

6 


79 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

‘‘Nothing better! But it’s the State law. Every- 
thing that comes short of four and three-fourths 
inches, solid bone measure, from the tip of the nose 
to the end of the back, has to be thrown over where 
it’s caught.” 

‘‘Why’s that?” 

‘‘To keep ’em from being exterminated. It’s 
based on the same principle as the law on trout or 
any other game-fish. Lobsters are growing scarcer 
every year, and something has to be done to pre- 
serve ’em.” 

“Does everybody throw the little ones away?” 

“No! If they did there’d be more of legal size. 
The Massachusetts law allows the sale there of lob- 
sters an inch and a half shorter than the length speci- 
fied here; so their smacks come down, lie outside 
the three-mile limit, and buy ‘shorts’ of every fisher- 
man who’s willing to break the Maine law to sell 
’em. Besides that, most of the summer cottagers 
along the coast buy and catch all the ‘shorts’ they 
can. So it’s no wonder the lobster’s running out.” 

While Jim talked he was emptying the trap. An- 
other “counter” went into the tub, and two more 
“shorts” splashed overboard. The financial side of 
the question interested Percy. 

“How many ‘shorts’ will you probably get a 
week?” 

‘ ‘ Five hundred or more. ’ * 

“And how much would a Massachusetts smack 
pay you for ’em?” 

“Ten or twelve cents apiece.” 

“Then you expect to throw more than fifty dollars 
a week over the side, just to obey the law?” 

8o 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


“That’s what!” 

Percy lapsed into silence. The lobsters disposed 
of, Jim began to clear the trap of its other contents. 
A big brown sculpin was floundering on the laths. 
Taking him out gingerly, Jim tossed him into the 
bait-tub upon the hake heads. 

“He’ll do for bait in a few days.” 

He picked out and threw over three or four large 
starfish, or “five-fingers.” The hake head stuck on 
the bait-spear in the center was almost gone; Jim 
replaced it with a fresh head from the bait-tub. Then 
he seized a mottled, purplish crab that had been aim- 
lessly scuttling to and fro across the bottom of the 
pot, and impaled him, back down, on the barb of 
the spear. Shutting and buttoning the door, he 
slid the trap overboard, started his engine, and 
headed for the next buoy. 

Its trap was caught among the rocks on the bot- 
tom, and Jim, imable to start it by hand, was 
obliged to make the warp fast and have recourse 
to towing. Just as it looked as if the line were about 
to part, the trap let go. It yielded one “counter” 
and three “shorts.” Also, it contained more than 
a dozen brown, imhealthy-looking, membranous 
things, shaped like long coin-purses, lined with rows 
of suckers, and with mouths at one end. 

“Sea-cucumbers! I’ve seen a trap fuU of ’em, 
almost to the door. They’re after the bait, like 
everything else.” 

Trap after trap was pulled, with varying success. 
Occasionally from a single one three or four good- 
sized lobsters would be taken ; occasionally one would 
yield nothing at all. But the majority averaged one 

8l 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

counter.” Percy could not accustom himself to 
the seeming waste of throwing over the “shorts.” 

“I should think you might sell those little fellows 
to the Massachusetts boats, and nobody be the 
wiser for it.” 

“I could; but I won’t. I’ll make clean money or 
I won’t make any at all.” 

There was a finality in Jim’s tones that closed the 
subject for good. Half the traps had now been 
hauled and there were about seventy-five pounds of 
lobsters in the tub. Spiny, egg-Hke sea-iu-chins, 
green wrinkles, and an occasional flounder or lamper- 
eel gave variety to the catch. There was always 
the hope that the next trap might yield five or six 
big fellows. 

“Now and then,” said Jim, “you get one so large 
he can’t crawl into a pot. He’ll be on the head, just 
as you start pulling, and he’ll hang to the netting 
imtil he comes to the top. After they take hold of 
anything, they hate to let go.” 

“What’s the biggest one you ever saw?” asked 
Lane. 

“One day when I was in Rockland, a smack 
brought in a fifteen-pounder she’d bought at Seal 
Island. But of course they grow a good deal larger 
than that. The big ones don’t taste nearly so good 
as the little ones. After they get to be a certain age, 
seven or eight years, the fishermen think, they don’t 
‘shed.’ Then you find ’em covered with barnacles, 
their claws cracked into squares, all wrinkled up. 
Those old grubbers belong to the offshore school; 
they stay outside, and never come in on the rocks.” 

Percy was listening with all his ears. 

82 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


“What do you mean by saying they don’t ‘shed ’ V* 
he asked. 

“Harken to the lecture on lobsters by Professor 
James Spurling!” announced Lane in stentorian 
tones. 

The next group of traps was some distance off, 
so Jim had a chance to talk without interruption. 

“In the spring a lobster that is growing begins to 
find his shell too tight, so he has to get out of it. 
Some time after the first of July he crawls in under 
the rocks or kelp, where the fish can’t trouble him. 
His shell splits down the back and he pulls himself 
out. He stays there for a week or ten days while a new 
and larger shell is forming. When he begins to crawl 
again, he’s raving hungry. One queer thing I al- 
most forgot. Fishermen say that, while he is lying 
under cover, all soft and unprotected, a hard-shell 
lobster, active and ugly, generally stands guard out-^ 
side the hole, ready to fight off any enemy that may 
come along.’’ 

By the time the last trap was pulled the lobster 
question had been pretty thoroughly canvassed. 

“Guess I’ve told you all I know, and more, too,” 
said Jim. 

They were back in Sprowl’s Cove at half past ten, 
and put their lobsters into the car with the others. 
Hardly had they finished when a motor-sloop came 
round the eastern point. 

“Here’s a smack!” exclaimed Jim. “On time to 
the minute! Shouldn’t wonder if it was Captain 
Higgins in the Calistar* 

The boat swept into the cove in a broad circle, 
and ranged alongside the car. At the helm stood a 
83 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

tall, grizzled man of perhaps sixty, with gray beard 
and twinkling blue eyes. A lanky, freckled boy stuck 
his head up out of the cabin. 

“Any lobsters to sell, boys?” inquired the man. 
“Isn’t this Captain Higgins?” asked Jim. 



“That’s my name — Benjamin B. Higgins, of the 
smack Calista, buying lobsters from Cranberry Isl- 
and to Portland, and this is my son Brad, my first 
mate and crew. I own this boat from garboard to 
main truck, bowsprit-tip to boom-end, and I don’t 
wear any man’s dog-collar. I’ll give you a square 
84 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


deal on weight and pay you as much as any ^mack- 
man, neither more nor less. Do we trade?” 

'‘We do,” answered Jim. “Let’s have your dip- 
net!” 

Stepping upon the car, he was soon bailing out the 
lobsters. Captain Higgins placed them in a tub 
on his deck scale. 

“Going to be here long, boys?” 

“We’ve taken the island for the season from my 
Uncle Tom Sprowl.” 

“So you’re Cap’n Tom’s nephew? Must be Ezra 
Spurling’s boy.” 

Jim nodded. 

“Glad to meet you! Made a trip once to the 
Grand Banks with Ezra; must be all of thirty years 
ago. Well, time flies! If you’ll save your lobsters 
for me, I’ll look in here every Thursday. How does 
that hit you?” 

“Right between the eyes.” 

After the lobsters were bailed out, Jim and Budge 
went on board the smack. Captain Higgins weighed 
the heaping tub of shell-fish. 

“One hundred and seventy pounds. Market 
price ’s twenty-five.” 

He glanced inquiringly at Jim. 

“All right!” agreed the latter. 

“Then we’U put ’em in the well.” 

He lifted off a hatch aft of the scale, opening into 
a compartment containing something over three feet 
of water; it was twelve feet long and thirteen wide, 
and divided into two parts by a low partition running 
lengthwise of the sloop. Two water-tight bulkheads 
separated it from the rest of the boat, and several 
85 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

hundred inch-and-a-quarter holes, bored through its 
bottom to allow free access to the water outside, 
gave it the appearance of a pepper-box. It already 
contained himdreds of hve lobsters. 

Picking the shell-fish carefully from the tub, Jim 
and the captain dropped them, one by one, into the 
well. Soon all were safely transferred to their new 
quarters, and the hatch was replaced. Captain 
Higgins invited Jim and Budge down into his Httle 
den of a cabin. Unlocking an iron box, he took from 
it a wallet and began counting out bills. 

“Forty-two dollars and a half!” 

He passed the amount over to Jim. 

“You carry quite a sum of ready money. Captain,” 
said Lane. 

“Yes; I have to. This business is cash on the 
nail. My boat can take over twelve thousand pounds 
of lobsters, and sometimes she’s almost filled. I’ve 
started out with three thousand dollars in that box, 
and I rarely go with less than two thousand. It 
’d surprise you to figiu-e up the amount of cash these 
smacks spread along the coast. They say that one 
winter, when lobsters were specially high, a Portland 
dealer paid a smackman over fifty-five hundred 
dollars for a single trip.” 

“Somebody must make a big profit. Think what 
a lobster costs in a market!” ^ 

“Somebody does — sometimes. But it isn’t the 
smackmen. Lobsters ought not to be kept in a well 
longer than a few days. A friend of mine started 
out from Halifax with ten thousand pounds of Cape 
Breton lobsters. He got caught in a gale of wind 

and lost fortv-seven hundred pounds before he landed 
86 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


in Boston. Some years ago a Maine dealer put one 
hundred and five thousand lobsters in a pound during 
May and June; he fed them chiefly on herring, and 
the total cost was over ten thousand dollars. Things 
went wrong and he took out just two hundred and 
fifty-four live ones. Not much profit about that!” 

Arranging to call near noon the next Thursday, 
Captain Higgins had soon rounded Brimstone Point 
and was on his way to Head Harbor on Isle au Haut, 
his next stopping-place. In the middle of the after- 
noon, while the boys were baiting trawls on the 
Barracouta, another boat chugged into the cove. It 
was a smack from Boston. 

“Got any lobsters, boys?” asked the captain, a 
red-faced, smooth-shaven man of forty. 

‘ * All sold 1’ ’ was Jim’s reply. ' ‘ And we’ve arranged 
to let the Calista have what we get.” 

“What do you do with your ‘shorts’?” 

“Heave ’em overboard.” 

“Save ’em for me and I’ll give you ten cents 
apiece for ’em.” 

“Nothing doing!” 

“You and yotu* crowd could clean up fifty dollars 
more a week here just as well as not. What are you 
afraid of? The warden can’t get out here once in a 
dog’s age.” 

“The State of Maine doesn’t have to hire any 
warden to keep me honest.” 

“You’re a fool, young fellow!” said the man, 
heatedly. 

“That may be,” retorted Jim, “but your saying 
so doesn’t make me one. Besides, I’d rather be a 
fool than a crook.” 


87 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

The smackman’s red face grew redder. 

“Don’t you get fresh with me!” he warned, 
threateningly. “Do you mean to say I’d do any- 
thing crooked?” 

“You’re the best judge about that.” 

Jim was tiring of the conversation. He turned 
his back on the stranger and resumed baiting his 
trawl. Findmg that nothing was to be gained by a 
longer stop, the man, muttering angrily, started his 
engine and left the cove. 

“I’m not saying whether this lobster law’s a good 
thing or not,” said Jim to the other boys. “Some 
fishermen say it isn’t. But so long as it’s the law 
it ought to be kept, until we can get a better one. 
I don’t believe in breaking it just for the sake of 
making a few dollars.” 

“Then the law doesn’t suit everybody,” ventured 
Throppy. 

“Not by a long shot! Each session of the Legis- 
lature they fight it over, and make some changes, 
and then a new set of people are dissatisfied. What’s 
meat to one man is poison to another. It’s impos- 
sible to pass a law somebody wouldn’t find fault 
with.” 

“What keeps one man from pulling another man’s 
traps?” asked Percy. 

“His conscience, if he has any; and, if he hasn’t, 
his dread of being found out. It’s a mean kind of 
thieving, but more or less of it’s done alongshore. 
Sometimes it costs a man dear. I know of two 
cases, within twenty-five miles of this island, where 
men have been shot dead for that very thing. About 
as unhealthy as stealing horses out West, if you’re 
88 


SHORTS AND COUNTERS 


caught. Like everything else, now and then it has 
its funny side. Once a lobsterman lost his watch, 
chain and all; for a day or two he was asking every- 
body he met if they’d seen it. A neighbor of his went 
out to pull his own traps. In one of them he found 
the first man’s watch, hanging by its chain to the 
door, just where it had been caught and twitched 
out of its owner’s pocket when he had slid the trap 
overboard, after stealing the lobsters in it. It was a 
long time before he heard the last of that.” 

“Did he get his watch back?” asked Percy. 

“Don’t know!” repHed Jim. “But if he didn’t it 
served him right.” 

On the Barracouta^s next trip to Matinicus she 
brought back the balance of Throppy’s wireless out- 
fit. It did not take him long to get his plant in work- 
ing order. Almost every evening thereafter he spent 
a short time picking up messages from passing 
steamers and the neighboring islands, and sending 
others in retium. The wireless came to fill an im- 
portant place in the life of the boys on Tarpaulin, 
furnishing a bond of connection between them and 
the outside world. 


VIII 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 

A FEW mornings after the first call of the 
Calista Budge and Percy were out pulling 
traps. Percy had told Jim plainly that he did not 
care to do any more trawling. Jim had smiled and 
made no reply; but after that either Throppy or 
Budge went out with him after hake. What the 
others said in private about Percy he neither knew 
nor cared. 

On this particular forenoon the lobster-catchers 
had half circled the island. As they nosed along the 
northern shore Percy spied some strange-looking 
floats ahead. 

‘ ‘ There's a red buoy !’ ' he exclaimed. ' ‘ Somebody 
else must be fishing here!" 

Incredulously Budge glanced forward. What he 
saw left him sober. 

“You’re right! This’ll be unpleasant news for 
Jim.’’ 

They ran up to the strange float. It was a battered 
wedge, painted a faded brick color. Percy gaffed it 
aboard. 

“What’s the brand?’’ queried Budge. 

“Hasn’t any.’’ 

Lane examined it and found that Percy was 

90 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 

correct. The wood bore no marks to reveal its 
owner. 

“Better haul the trap?** asked Percy. 

He began heaving in on the warp. 

“Stop that!’* ordered Budge, sharply. “Throw 
it over. We don’t want to get into any scrape. 
We’ll have to put it up to Jim this noon. He’ll 
know what to do.” 

They counted nine more of the red buoys before 
they reached the northeast point of the island. 

“Look there!” 

Percy pointed toward the landlocked Sly Hole. 
A thin column of blue smoke was rising above it, as 
if from the stovepipe of an anchored boat. Budge 
debated for a moment, then turned the bow of the 
pea-pod toward the narrow entrance. 

“We’ll go in and see who’s there.” 

A dozen quick strokes sent the boat through the 
winding channel into the little harbor. Budge rested 
on his oars and they looked eagerly about. 

In the center of the haven lay anchored a rusty 
black sloop about forty feet long, a dory swinging 
at her stem. From her cabin drifted the sound and 
smell of frying fish, mingled with men’s voices. 

“Might as well take the bull by the horns,” said 
Budge. 

He rowed directly up to the sloop. The sounds 
on board evidently drowned the dipping of his oars, 
for it was not until the stem of the pea-pod stmck 
the msty side that the voices stopped and two star- 
tled brown faces popped up out of the companion- 
way. Both men had sharp black eyes, and black 
shocks of hair badly in need of the barber. One was 
91 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

slightly gray, and a prickly stubble of unshaven 
beard covered his chin. The younger man had a 
jet-black mustache with long, drooping ends. Both 



wore red shirts, open at the neck, with sleeves rolled 
above the elbows. The younger held a half -smoked 
cigar, while his companion grasped a large fork, 
which he evidently had been using on the fish. For 
92 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 

a few seconds the two couples regarded each other in 
silence. 

Then the man with the black mustache smiled 
ingratiatingly. 

“H’lo, boys!’* he invited. “Won’t you come 
’board?” 

“No, thank you,” declined Budge. “When did 
you get here?” 

“We come last night, from . . . there,” with a 
vague gesture toward the west. “We fish, we 
lobster. You live on dis island . . . yes? We stay 
here, too. We be good friend. Wait!” 

Diving below, he brought up a long-necked black 
bottle. 

“You have drink?” 

“No!” refused Budge, decidedly. 

The man looked disappointed. He muttered a 
few words to his companion. The latter scowled. 
Then they drank from the bottle and replaced it 
below. The yoimger man began talking again. 

“Disa good harbor! We build camp there.” 

He gestured toward the beach. 

“We plenty lath on board. We make one . . . 
two hundred trap. We stop all summer. Good 
friend, eh?” 

“I guess so,” returned Budge. 

The program annotmced had taken him some- 
what aback. He hardly knew what to reply. 
Pushing the pea-pod off, he turned her toward the 
channel. 

“You livea ’cross dis island . . . yes?” shouted the 
man after him. “We come see you to-night!” 

Budge made no response to this advance. Steady, 

93 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

rapid pulling soon brought the boys again into open 
water. 

“Well, what do you think now?” asked Percy. 

“Wait till we hear what Jim says,” was Lane’s 
reply. 

The remaining traps were hauled in double-quick 
time and they made a bee-line for Sprowl’s Cove. 
Spurling and Throppy came in at noon on the Bar- 
racouta. Jim’s brows knitted when he heard of 
their new neighbors. 

“What should you say they were?” he inquired. 

“Don’t know,” answered Lane. “Only I’m sure 
they’re not Yankees.” 

“And they had no brand on their buoys?” 

“Not a letter!” 

“That’s against the law. Suspicious, too. So they 
intend to build a camp here and spend the summer?” 

“That’s what they said.” 

The anxious furrows in Jim’s forehead deepened. 
He brought his fist down hard on the Barracouta's 
cabin. 

“Boys,” he said, firmly, “they can’t stop here. 
There aren’t lobsters enough on these ledges for 
them and for us. What they get we won’t. They’ve 
got to pull up those traps and get out just as quick 
as we can make ’em.” 

The others exchanged looks of surprise. Though 
they knew Jim’s absolute fairness and sense of right, 
they could not help feeling that his decision was a 
harsh one. Jim read their faces. 

“I know what you’re thinking, boys. It seems 
as if I had no right to drive ’em off. But suppose 
any one of you owned a piece of woods on the main- 
94 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 


land, and a stranger should come and begin to chop 
the trees down without your permission. How long 
would you stand it? The same principle holds good 
here, even if it is twenty-five miles offshore. This 
is my uncle Tom’s island. He’s been paying taxes 
on it for years. His Hving comes from it and the 
waters round it. He’s leased it to us on shares, and 
we’ve got to look out for his interest as well as our 
own.” 

“But how can you stop them from setting traps?” 
queried Lane. “I thought the sea beyond low- water 
mark was public property.” 

“It is. They can set as many traps as they can 
bring on their sloop, and I never could trouble ’em 
so long as they lived aboard. If they fished with 
only the few they’ve got now I’d never say a word. 
But when they talk of building a camp ashore, and 
going into the business wholesale with one or two 
hundred pots, we must draw the fine, and draw it 
sharp. They can’t use any of the shore legally 
without my permission, and that they’ll never get; 
and if they try to use it illegally they’ll find them- 
selves in hot water mighty quick. 

“Another thing,” he continued, “they’re stran- 
gers to us, and drinking men. They might pull our 
traps or accuse us of pulling theirs. There’s a chance 
for all sorts of mix-ups. No, they’ve got to go, and 
the sooner the better.” 

“They’re coming across to call to-night,” said 
Lane. 

“Not if we can get over there first. We’ll go 
roimd in the sloop as soon as these hake are dressed 
and salted.” 

7 


95 


J)IM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

At four o’clock the last fish was slapped down on 
the rounded-up tub. 

“Now we’ll go,” announced Jim. “Come on, 
everybody! You, too, Filippo! Might as well 
show up our full force. It may help stave off 
trouble.” 

“Aren’t you going to take the gun?” Percy in- 
quired. 

' ‘ Gun ? No ! What ’d we want of that ? We don’t 
intend to shoot anybody.” 

Twenty minutes after the Barracouta left Sprowl’s 
Cove she was thudding into the Sly Hole. The sloop 
still lay at anchor in its center, but the dory was 
grounded on the beach. From the woods above, 
ax-strokes echoed faintly. 

“Either cutting firewood or beginning on that 
camp,” said Jim. 

Presently the chopping ceased. Before long the 
two men appeared on the top of the bank, dragging 
a spruce trunk about twenty feet long. On seeing 
the Barracouta they halted in surprise, then dropped 
the tree and hurried down to their dory. 

“Seem to be afraid we’ve been mousing round 
aboard their boat,” muttered Spurling. 

Without responding to his hail the two strangers 
rowed hastily to their sloop and went below. A 
minute or two of investigation evidently satisfied 
them that nothing had been disturbed. As they 
came up again Jim ran the Barracouta alongside. 

“Where you from?” he asked. 

The younger man again acted as spokesman: 

“’Way off . . . there!” 

As when Budge had questioned him, he gestured 

96 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 


vaguely toward the west. Then he launched into 
a repetition of what he had said that forenoon. 

“We stay on dis island all summer. Make trap. 
Build camp. Catch plenty fish, plenty lobster. All 
friend, eh?“ 

He laid his left hand on his heart, and with his 
right made a sweeping gesture that included the 
whole group. 

“You wait!” 

Dropping suddenly out of sight, he reappeared 
with equal quickness, brandishing the black bottle. 

“We drink ... all together, eh?” 

Jim brushed his proffer aside. 

“I’ve hired this island. You’ll have to pay me 
rent if you stop here.” 

A shadow of wrath swept over the dark face. 
Instantly it was gone, and a smile replaced it. 

* ‘ Rent 1 ” he protested . “ No , no ! Friend no pay ! 
We sing, we smoke, we drink, we playa cards. All 
good friend together. No pay money!” 

The last very decided. The older man nodded 
vigorously in confirmation, and for the first time 
broke silence. 

“No pay money!” he repeated. “All friend!” 

The two laid their hands on their hearts and 
stood smiling and bowing. For a moment Jim 
was nonplussed. He backed the Barracouta out 
of earshot. 

“Well, what d’you think of the outlook?” asked 
Lane. 

“Don’t like it, and I don’t Hke them. Too much 
palaver! I’ve got ’em sized up. They’re regular 
salt-water gipsies; I’ve heard of ’em before. They 
97 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

drift round from one place to another, fish a little, 
lobster a little, smoke a good deal, and drink more. 
They’d be worse than a pestilence on this island. 
Yes, sir! They’ve got to go! They know just as 
well as I do that they’ve no right to stop here; 
but they’re going to bluff it through. They’ll try 
to stave me off by pretending not to imderstand 
what I mean, but you noticed they were bright 
enough when money was mentioned.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 

“Tell ’em they’ve got to go!” 

“And if they won’t?” 

“Send for the sheriff!” 

While the boys had been holding their council of 
war the two men had disappeared into their cabin, 
where they held an angry, but unintelligible, dis- 
cussion. As Jim brought the Barracouta once more 
alongside their heads quickly appeared. They were 
scowling blackly. 

“Will you pay rent?” demanded Jim. 

“No pay rent,” came the defiant reply from both 
together. 

“Pull up your traps, then, and go!” 

“No go!” exclaimed the younger. “You go! We 
stay!” 

“That settles it,” said Jim. “I’U send for the 
sheriff to-night, and have Ifim here in the morning.” 

He leaned over to start his engine. At his first 
movement the two dropped out of sight, but before 
he could rock the wheel they were up again, each 
holding a shot-gun. They leveled these weapons 
at the Barracouta, 

“No send for sheriff! No start engine!” 

98 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 


Jim straightened up and the startled boys glanced 
at one another. The demonstration of hostility had 
come like a bolt from a clear sky. Things looked 
ugly. Again the younger man spoke. 

“S’pose you go for sheriff. We stay! Cut buoy! 
Sink boat! Burn cabin! Then go before you get 
back! How you Hke that, eh?’* 

For once Jim was at a loss. What answer could 
be made to such an argument? The other noted 
his hesitation, and smiled triumphantly. 

‘‘You let us alone, we let you alone! You trouble 
us, we trouble you. Now you go !’ ’ 

It was half a permission, half a command, backed 
by the leveled guns. Jim was on the point of start- 
ing the engine when Filippo interrupted him. 

“Misser Jim, let me talk to ’em,” he begged in a 
low tone. 

Spurling glanced at him in surprise. 

“What for, Filippo? Are they countrymen of 
yours?” 

“Don’t know! I see!” 

“Go ahead, then! It can’t do any hurt.” 

“Hi!” called out Filippo. “Listen! AscoUatemiF* 

The two men started as if they had been shot; 
they fixed their gaze on Filippo. He began talking 
rapidly to them in Italian, gesturing freely. They 
replied in the same language. For fully ten minutes 
the heated dialogue continued. Jim and his mates 
listened in silence, now and then catching a word they 
had learned from Filippo, but not comprehending 
the drift of the debate. 

At last it was clear that some conclusion had been 
reached. Shaking their heads in disgust, the two 
99 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

sullenly restored their guns to the cabin. Filippo 
turned to Jim. 

“All right! They go to-night, after they puU 
traps. Now we start — right away!” 

Jim looked at the Italian in amazement; but he 
started the engine and the sloop forged out of the 
cove. Once in the passage, he broke silence. 

“How did you ever manage it, Filippo?” 

“I teU them your uncle own island; you hire it of 
him for summer. You lots of friends. . If they no 
go, you send for sheriff right away. We too many 
for them. Guard cabin with gun till you get back. 
Sheriff come in night, while they sleep. Take them, 
take boat, take trap. Put them in jail. They break 
rock, work on road rest of summer. They not Hke 
that. They go!” 

“Good enough, Filippo! Guess you didn’t strain 
the 'truth much. You certainly have got us out of 
an impleasant hole. I’m free to say I was at my 
wits’ end. Good thing for us we ran across you on 
the wharf at Stonington!” 

“Better thing for me!” answered Filippo. 

That evening after supper the boys stole silently 
through the woods to the northeastern end of the 
island. The Sly Hole was empty! The sloop had 
gone! 

Stepping out of the evergreens, Jim looked west- 
ward along the shore. 

“There they are!” 

The dory towing astern was "piled high with 
traps. 

“Shouldn’t wonder if they had some of ours among 
’em!” exclaimed Jim. “No matter! We’re getting 
100 


SALT-WATER GIPSIES 


rid of ’em cheap, if they scoop a dozen! But look 
at that ! They’ve got all they want, and now they’re 
cutting away our buoys! Here’s where I call a 
halt!” 

He sprang out upon the bank in plain sight. 

‘ ‘ Hi, there ! Stop that !’ ’ 

One of the men had just gaffed a buoy. At Jim’s 
hail he glanced up and waved his hand nonchalantly. 
Then he deliberately cut the warp. The other man 
dropped into the cabin and reappeared with the 
two gims. Jim threw himself fiat on his face. 

“Down, boys!” he cried. 

A hail of birdshot peppered the bluff and the 
woods behind it as both the double-barrels roared 
out in unison. One leaden pellet drew blood from 
the back of Jim’s hand, while Throppy, a little slow 
in dropping to cover, was stung on the cheek. The 
others were untouched. Percy shook with fright 
and excitement. Lane was boiling with anger. 

“Let’s take the Barracouta and follow ’em!” he 
proposed. 

“Cool off. Budge!” laughed Jim. “That’s just a 
parting salute. Besides, they’ve got two guns to 
our one. Let ’em go! And good riddance to bad 
rubbish! See! They’re on their way now!” 

The sloop’s head swung to the north and she 
filled away. 

“They’ve done what damage they’ve dared and 
they’re gone for good. They’ll be up at Isle au Haut 
to-night, either in Head Harbor or Eumball’s Island 
Thoroughfare. Forget ’em!” 

“Lucky my temper isn’t hitched up with your 
strength,” said Lane. 

lOI 


IX 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 

I ATE on the afternoon of July 3d, when the 
^ morning’s catch of eighteen hundred pounds 
of hake had been split and salted, Spurling called a 
council of war. Percy attended with the others. 
He had gone out with Budge in the morning to 
haul the lobster-traps; the rest of the day he had 
loafed, lying on the soft turf below the beacon on 
Brimstone Point and reading The Three Musketeers. 

Of the work that pleased him he had determined 
to do only as much as he liked, and not a stroke 
more. Lobstering was really attractive; there was 
enough novelty and excitement about it to keep 
him interested. When a pot came up it might con- 
tain no shell-fish or a half-dozen; the element of 
uncertainty appealed to his sporting instincts. But 
fishing he had stricken utterly from his Hst. It was 
too hard and too dirty. Slogging at the heavy trawls 
and afterward dressing the catch was too plebeian 
a business for the son of a millionaire. 

So he let the others tire their muscles and soil 
their hands and clothing while he attended strictly 
to the business of pleasing himself. He could not 
help being aware of a growing coolness on the part 
of his associates, but it gave him no concern. His 
102 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


month of probation was almost up, and he had de- 
cided that, come what might, he would leave at its 
end. Only a few days more, and this hard, monot- 
onous island life would lie behind him forever. He 
would send back a check to cover the expense of his 
board, and that would permanently close his rela- 
tions with Spurling & Company. 

This resolve to pay for meals and lodging gave 
him a feeling of independence. Hence, though he 
knew the others did not care whether he attended 
or not, he felt himself entitled to a place at the 
council. 

The meeting took place on the beach in front of 
the cabin. Spurling and Stevens had just come from 
the Barracouta^ their oilskin ‘‘petticoats” bearing 
gory evidence of their work for the last two hours. 

“Fellows,” proposed Jim, “to-morrow let’s cele- 
brate! We can’t set the trawls, for we haven’t any- 
thing to bait up with. And even if we had, I don’t 
believe in working on the Fourth. When I was at 
Matinicus the other day I saw a poster advertising a 
ball-game and big celebration at Vinalhaven. We’ll 
have an early breakfast and run up there in the Barra- 
couta. First, we’ll go to Hardy’s weir and take in 
a lot of herring for bait. Then we can slip round to 
Carver’s Harbor and spend the rest of the day ashore. 
What d’you say?” 

There was no doubt regarding the vote. 

‘ ‘ The ayes have it !” shouted Spurling. ‘ ‘ Now let’s 
get everything in trim for day after to-morrow! 
We won’t pull the traps again until then.” 

Filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of a holi- 
day, Budge, Throppy, and Jim dispersed to their 
103 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

various tasks. Yawningly, Percy returned to Brim- 
stone Point and The Three Musketeers. After all, 
doing nothing on an island twenty-five miles out at 
sea was pretty dull work. 

The boys had an early supper and were soon 
asleep. Turning out at daybreak, they despatched a 
hearty meal of corn-bread and bacon. Everybody 
but Percy took hold with the dishes and helped tidy 
up the camp. Shortly after sunrise they were sail- 
ing out of the cove in the Barracouta. 

The trip in past Saddleback Light to Vinalhaven 
was imeventful. By eight o’clock they were lying 
alongside Hardy’s weir, and its owner was dipping 
bushel after bushel of shining herring into the pen 
aboard the sloop. Before ten they were anchored 
off the steamboat wharf at Carver’s Harbor. 

The town was in gala dress. Bunting streamed 
everywhere. Torpedoes, firecrackers, bombs, and 
revolvers rent the air with deafening explosions. 
The brass guns on two yachts in the harbor con- 
tributed an occasional salvo. As the boys rowed 
in to the shore the strains of “The Star-Spangled 
Banner” came floating over the water, and round 
the outer point appeared one of the small bay 
steamers, loaded with excursionists, including a 
brass band. On board also was the Camden base- 
ball team, scheduled to play the opening game in 
the county league series with the home team that 
afternoon. 

Bedlam broke loose as the steamer made fast to 
the wharf and the crowd aboard streamed ashore. 
To Spurling and his friends, after three weeks of 
Tarpaulin Island, the narrow, winding street with 

104 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


its holiday crowd afforded the bustle and varied 
interest of a city. Even Percy deigned to allow 
himself to be tempted out of the sulky dignity which 
he had assumed since the council of the previous 
afternoon. 

The group scattered. Lane and Stevens wandered 
about town, taking in the sights and dodging the tor- 
pedoes and firecrackers of enthusiastic patriots of a 
more or less tender age. Spurling found an old 
’longshore acquaintance from a visiting boat and 
went off aboard to inspect his new type of engine. 
Filippo struck up an eternal friendship with a 
fellow-countryman from the granite quarries on Hur- 
ricane. Percy, left to his own resources, invested 
in a new brand of cigarettes and promenaded back 
and forth along the main street, smoking and eying 
the passers-by superciliously. 

Noon found the restaurants packed with hungry 
excursionists; but the crowds were good-natured 
and everybody was able to get plenty to eat. At 
two o’clock there was a grand rush to the baseball- 
grounds. 

Spurling, Lane, and Stevens sat together in the 
front of the stand; Percy perched at the extreme 
right of the topmost row; while Filippo lay on the 
grass back of third base with his new-found, swarthy 
compatriot. 

Evidently there was some hitch about beginning 
the game. The Vinalhavens had taken the field for 
practice. The Camden team, bunched close to- 
gether, were talking earnestly, meanwhile casting 
anxious glances toward the street that led to the 
water. 

105 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

The Vinalhaven scorer passed before the stand 
with his book. 

“What’s the trouble?’’ asked Stevens. 

“Camden catcher and third-baseman haven’t 
shown up. They started out with a party in a 
power-boat before the steamer. Engine must have 
broken down. Here it is time to call the game, and 
the visiting team two men short! And the biggest 
crowd of the season here! Can you beat that for 
luck?” 

The Camden pitcher separated himself from his 
companions and strolled toward the stand. 

“Anybody here want to put on a mitt and stop 
a few fast ones?” he inquired. 

“That means you, Jim!” said Lane. “Come on! 
Don’t be too modest!” 

Spurling climbed out over the front of the stand. 

“I’ll try to hold you for a little while,” he volun- 
teered. 

Soon he was smoothly receiving the pitcher’s 
curves and lobbing them back. The combination 
went like clockwork. In the mean time the rest of 
the Camden team had taken the field and were 
warming up. The missing members had not yet 
appeared. 

“That ’ll do for a while,” said the pitcher. 

The two drew to one side. 

“What team have you been catching on?” asked 
the Camden man, suddenly. 

“Graff am Academy.” 

“I knew you must have traveled with a pretty 
speedy bimch. My name’s Beverage.” 

“Mine’s Spurling.” 

io6 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


“Say, old man, I want you to do us a big favor. 
Catch this game for Camden, will you?’* 

“I’ve been out of practice for over a month,’’ ob- 
jected Jim. 

“Never mind about that! I don’t mean to flatter 
you, but we’ve got nothing in this league that can 
touch you. Come, now ! As a personal favor to me !’ ’ 

“All right. I’ll do my best.’* 

“Good for you! Now we’ve got to pick up a 
third-baseman!’’ 

Jim hesitated. 

“Our Academy shortstop is here,” he said, slowly. 
“He can play a mighty good third at a pinch.’’ 

“If he’s willing, we’ll take him on your say-so, 
and snap at the chance.” 

Jim walked to the front of the stand. 

“You’re signed for third for this game. Budge! 
I’m going to catch.” 

“We’ve got a couple of spare suits,” said Beverage. 
“Come on over to the hotel and change.” 

In fifteen minutes Lane and Spurling were back 
on the field in Camden uniforms and the game had 
begun. 

The contest was a hot one. The teams were eveniy 
matched, and the result hung in doubt up to the 
last inning. The crowd boiled with enthusiasm and 
the supporters of each team cheered themselves 
hoarse. 

In the middle of the fifth inning, when the ex- 
citement was running highest, a slim, bareheaded 
figure with a tow pompadour sprouting above a 
fog-bumt face leaped suddenly up at the right end 

of the top row in the stand. 

107 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

It was Percy. Exhilarated by the closeness of 
the game, he had forgotten his grudge against 
Spurling & Company. He flourished a roll of bills. 

“Two to one on Camden!” he 
shouted in a high-keyed voice. 

All heads turned his way. For a 
moment nobody spoke. Percy mis- 
took the silence. He struck a theatric 
attitude. 

“Three to one! Are you afraid to 
support your home team?” 

A girl giggled. Two or three boys 
hooted. Then a short, dark, thick- 
set man in the second row whirled 
about and answered the challenger. 

“ No, ” he said, deliberately. ‘ ‘ We’re 
not afraid to support oiu* nine. If we 
were, it wouldn’t be playing here 
to-day. We expect it to do its best. 
If it wins, it wins. If it loses, it loses. 
And that’s all there is to it. What- 
ever dollars we have to put into base- 
ball will go to meet the regiilar ex- 
penses of the team. We haven’t any money to fool 
away in betting; and we don’t care for any more 
second-hand talk from a half-baked youngster like 
you! You get me?” 

The crowd applauded uproariously. Pursued by 
the jeers and catcalls of the small fry, Percy sat down, 
his face, if possible, redder than before. 

Spurling caught an errorless game. It was Lane’s 
bat in the last half of the ninth that finally drove in 
the winning rim for Camden. Five to four. 

io8 



FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


The crowd streamed noisily off the grounds. A 
knot of the younger element tried to heckle Percy, 
but he strode loftily by them, puffing his inevitable 
cigarette. Jim and Budge went to the hotel with 
the Camden team to change their suits. 

Beverage was jubilant over the victory. 

“It’s a mean thing to say,” he remarked; “but 
I’m glad that power-boat didn’t get here. We owe 
the game to you two fellows. How much shall we 
pay you?” 

“Nothing,” answered Jim. “We’re paid already. 
We’ve enjoyed winning as much as you have.” 

“Well, if you ever come to Camden, remember 
that you own the town.” 

The boys decided to stop over for the early- 
evening celebration. The Vinalhavens were good 
losers, and the excursion steamer was not to start 
back until nine o’clock, so the town promised to 
be lively enough for the next few hours. 

Before it had grown very dark the streets began 
to blaze with fireworks. Percy’s remarks of the 
afternoon still rankled in the minds of the junior 
portion of the residents, and, as he sauntered to 
and fro, he became the butt of many pointed jests. 
He ignored them all. Such trivialities were beneath 
the notice of a scion of the house of Whittington. 

It was his air of haughty superiority that got 
him into trouble. Tempted beyond endurance by 
his cool, insolent swagger, a small boy on the other 
side of the street discharged a Roman candle at him 
point-blank. One of the fiery balls struck his right 
side and dropped into the open pocket of his coat, 
starting a lively blaze. The garment got a smart 
109 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

scorching, and Percy’s fingers were burnt and his 
feelings badly ruffled before he succeeded in ex- 
tinguishing the conflagration. 

Singling out the offender among a group of boys 
dancing delightedly up and down, Percy made a 
sudden rush and pounced upon him like a hawk 
on a chicken. ^ Holding him by the collar, he 
cuffed his ears soundly. The criminal wriggled 
and twisted, loudly and tearfuUy protesting his 
innocence. 

A stocky, freckled lad of about eighteen, with a 
close-cut head of brown hair, came out of a neigh- 
boring house on the run. His snub nose and pro- 
jecting jaw suggested a human bulldog. He thrust 
his face close up to Percy’s. 

'‘What ’re you maulin’ my brother for?” he de- 
manded, truculently. 

Percy dropped his victim, having finished chas- 
tising him. The latter rubbed his eyes and howled 
louder than ever. 

“I asked you why you were maulin’ my brother,” 
reiterated the newcomer in a still more belligerent 
tone. 

“Because he burned this hole in my coat,” replied 
Percy, exhibiting the damaged garment. 

“I didn’t do it!” howled the boy. 

“You hear that?” exclaimed the freckled lad, 
angrily. “He says he didn’t and I say he didn’t.” 

“Well, I say he did!” 

“Do you mean to tell me I lie?” 

Percy became suddenly aware that a ring was 
forming round him. He cast a hasty glance about 
the lowering faces and recognized some of his would- 

IIO 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


be hecklers of the afternoon. No Tarpaulin Island- 
ers were there. He was a stranger in a strange land. 
But the Whittington in him was up, and he did not 
blench. He faced his questioner. 

“If you say he didn’t bum that hole — ^yes!” 

An indignant chorus rose from the group. 

“Did you hear that, Jabe? He called you a liar. 
I wouldn’t stand that. Make him eat those words! 
It’s the fresh guy who made the cheap talk at the 
ball-game. Soak him! Do him up!’’ 

Spurred on by these exhortations, Jabe dropped 
his head between his shoulders and came at his 
enemy with the rush of a mad bvdl. 

Percy was a good boxer. He had taken lessons 
from several first-class sparring-masters, and would 
have been no mean antagonist for anybody of his 
age and weight. Bub Jabe was a year older and fully 
twenty-five pounds heavier. Evidently, too, he had 
the abounding health and strength that come from 
life in the open. The odds against the city boy were 
heavy, but he stood up gamely. 

Jabe mshed in upon him and struck with all his 
might. Percy side-stepped, and the blow went harm- 
lessly by, while his assailant’s rush carried him to 
the other side of the ring. Whirling about with a 
cry of rage, he came back, swinging his arms like 
a windmill. 

“Now, Jabe! Now, Jabe!’’ rose the cry. 

Again Percy leaped aside, and his right arm shot 
out. The blow caught his foe fairly under the left 
ear, and he went sprawling; but he was down only 
for a moment. Springing to his feet, he hurled him- 
self into the fray with redoubled fury. Again he 
8 III 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

was knocked down, and again he renewed the battle, 
with more strength than before. 

The fight could not last long. It was muscle 
against science, and in the end muscle won. Percy 
began to tire and to grow short of breath. He had 
smoked too many cigarettes to be able to keep up 
such a whirlwind pace for many minutes. Though 
he landed five blows to his enemy’s one, the latter’s 
one did more damage than his five. 

For the first time in the contest Jabe used his 
head. Hitherto he had struck straight for the mark 
each time. Now he feinted with his right for his 
foe’s body. Percy dropped his guard somewhat 
wearily. Before he realized what was happening, 
Jabe’s left, sent in with tremendous force, hit him a 
smashing blow squarely on the nose, knocking him 
over backward. 

It was the beginning of the end. Percy tottered 
up, blood spurting from his nose, his head spinning. 
He saw Jabe preparing for another rush and knew 
it would be the last one. He stiffened himself to 
receive the knock-out. 

A tall, broad-shouldered figure broke through the 
circle. 

'‘What’s the trouble here?” 

It was Spurling’s voice. His glance took in the 
situation. 

"That ’ll be about all,” he said. "Come away, 
Whittington!” 

A bullet-headed, shirt-sleeved man bristled up de- 
fiantly. It was Jabe’s father. 

"Guess we’ll let ’em fight it out,” he observed. 

His boy was winning. 

II2 


FISTS AND FIREWORKS 


“No,’' said Jim. “It’s gone far enough.” 

“Not looking for trouble, are you?” 

“No,” remarked Jim, easily. “I don’t want any 
trouble with you, and you don’t want any with me.” 

The shirt-sleeved man glanced appraisingly at his 
square shoulders and strongly knit figiu*e. 

“Right you are, George!” he laughed. “I don’t 
want any trouble with you. You must be a mind- 
reader. You call off your dog and I’ll call off mine.” 

He grasped Jabe by the collar and jerked him back- 
ward. Jim dropped a compelling hand on Percy’s 
shoulder. 

“Come on, Whittington! You ought to have 
brains enough to know you’ve been licked. It’s 
time we started for Tarpaulin Island.” 


X 


REBELLION IN CAMP 

C ONVERSATION lagged on the Barracouta as 
she jogged smoothly over the starlit sea toward 
Tarpaulin Island. By the dim light of two lanterns, 
Jim, Throppy, Budge, and Filippo were busy bait- 
ing the trawls with herring and coiling them into 
the tubs in the standing-room. Percy had withdrawn 
from his companions and lay across the heel of the 
bowsprit on the decked-over bow. 

He had stanched the flow of blood from his nose, 
but it still pained him, and he was otherwise bruised 
and badly shaken by the buffets from Jabe’s knobby 
fists. Judged by Percy's feelings, Jabe must have 
been all knuckles. Percy had to acknowledge that 
only Spurling’s opportime appearance had saved 
him from being poimded unmercifully. But his 
pride had been injimed far more than his physical 
body. It seemed improbable that he would ever 
see Jabe again, but he determined that some time, 
somewhere, and somehow the freckled lad should pay 
dearly for the slight he had put upon the house of 
Whittington. 

It was a few minutes past eleven when the sloop's 
engine stopped and she glided up to her mooring in 
Sprowl’s Cove. Five sleepy boys tumbled into the 

114 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


dory and paddled ashore. The Fourth was over 
and the routine of workaday life would begin again 
for them early the next morning. 

Nemo dashed back and forth on the beach, barking 
a furious welcome and springing upon his masters 
indiscriminately. Unwittingly he leaped at Percy 
and in playful mood closed his teeth over the lad’s 
right thumb, sprained and aching from the fight. 

‘‘Get out, you cur!” exclaimed Whittington. 

He laimched an aimless, vindictive kick in the 
general direction of the gamboling beast. As often 
happens with random blows, it went too true. Nemo 
ki-yied up the beach on three legs. 

“What are you about, Whittington?” burst out 
Lane, angrily. Among the entire five he was the 
fondest of the dog. 

Percy was ashamed and sorry that he had hurt 
the animal, but Lane’s eruption of temper smothered 
his repentant feelings. 

“He bit my thumb,” he muttered, sullenly. 

“You know well enough he was just in sport. 
Don’t you kick him again! You hear me!” 

Percy mumbled an indistinct reply. As soon as 
the cabin was unlocked he turned into his bunk, 
without a word to anybody. For him the Fourth 
had been anything but a holiday. 

Before going to sleep, Spurling outlined their work 
for the morrow. 

“Throppy, you and I’ll try our luck on Martingale 
Bank. It’s only a half-mile northwest of the island, 
and sometimes you can get a big catch there. I’ve 
been saving it for a time Hke this. Budge, you and 
Percy ought to get at least a couple of himdred 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

pounds out of those lobster-traps. They’ll have 
been down two days and should yield some good- 
sized ones. Set the clock at four, Filippo! We’ll 
be lazy for once.** 

Percy’s sleep was broken. He dreamed of being 
chased along the main street of Vinalhaven by a 
crowd of small boys shooting at him with Roman 
candles. He dodged into an open doorway, only 
to be driven out by a giant with Jabe’s face and a 
half-dozen pairs of arms the fists of which were 
studded with a double allowance of knuckles. He 
was fast being pounded to a pulp when the alarm- 
clock went off. He woke in a cold sweat. 

Lying with closed eyes, he pretended to be asleep 
while Jim and Throppy finished a hasty breakfast. 
Soon the exhaust of the Barracouta proclaimed that 
they were on their way to Martingale Bank. Percy 
dozed, but remained conscious of Filippo’s culinary 
operations. 

At five Lane turned out, according to schedule. 
He shook Percy vigorously. 

“Wake up, Whittington! Breakfast!” 

“Don’t care for mine yet.” 

“Aren’t you going out with me to haul those 
traps?” 

“No!” retorted Percy, sourly. 

“Suit yourself!” was Lane’s brief response. 

Percy knew that Budge would rather go without 
him. He heard him give a whistle as he examined 
Nemo’s leg; the animal cringed and whimpered. 

“Poor fellow! Too bad!” sympathized Lane. 

The remark was evidently intended for Percy’s 
ears. At least the lad took it so. He felt sorry if 

Ii6 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


Nemo was really hiirt. Lane went out, and Percy 
turned over for another nap. When he next woke 
it was almost seven and the cabin was empty. He 
got up and dressed leisurely. 

Looking out of the window, he saw Filippo digging 
clams on the flats across the cove. That meant 
chowder for dinner, a dish he particularly detested. 
He made a wry mouth and turned to the larder, but 
could discover nothing but some cold fish and fried 
potatoes. The fire had gone out, and he determined 
to await Filippo’s return before breakfasting. 

Deliberately scratching a match, he lighted a 
cigarette, thereby breaking the rule against smoking 
in the cabin. Then he stretched himself out on his 
bunk and began reading The Three Musketeers, 
Filippo returned before he had finished his chapter. 
The Italian’s eyes grew round at the tobacco smoke. 

“You know Misser Jim say no smoking!” 

“Mister Jim isn’t here now. You mind your 
own business and I’ll mind mine. Get me some 
breakfast, will you?” 

“Fire gone out while you sleep and everything 
grow cold. You bring some wood and I build an- 
other.” 

To Percy’s still overstrained nerves Filippo’s way 
of putting the matter suggested a condition on 
which the meal depended rather than a request. 

' ' Bring it yourself !” he growled. “ I ’m no servant 1 
I don’t shag kindling for any Dago!” 

At this insult Filippo’s olive cheeks became quite 
pale. Into his eyes flashed a look Whittington had 
never seen there before. For an instant he almost 
feared that the young foreigner was about to seize 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

a knife and spring upon him. Then the look passed 
and Filippo’s color came back. 

“All right!” he laughed. “No wood, no break- 
fast!” 

Stepping out to the fish-house, he began shelling 



the clams he had just dug. Percy vacillated between 
pride and hunger. Hunger won. 

“I didn’t mean that, Filippo,” he repented. “I 
beg your pardon. I’ll get the wood.” 

He did, and Filippo heated up the fish and pota- 
toes. Percy tried to engage him in conversation, 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


but was able to extract only monosyllables in return. 
Evidently his hasty words still rankled in the Italian’s 
breast. 

Breakfast over, Percy took his book and started 
for the beacon. It was a beautiful July morning. 
The sea rippled blue and sparkling to the horizon. 
Budge was hauling his traps on the ledges around 
the base of Brimstone. A half-mile farther out 
Jim and Throppy were busy at their trawls. Condi- 
tions for fishing could not have been more ideal. 

For a time Percy tried to read; but somehow 
Dumas’s heroes failed to keep his interest. The sense 
of contrast between his own idleness and his mates’ 
industry took all the pleasure out of his book. He 
tossed it aside and stood up. A motor-boat was 
rounding the eastern point. Percy recognized her 
as the Calista. Ordinarily he would have been glad 
to exchange chaff with Captain Higgins and Brad 
while they dipped the lobsters out of the car. This 
morning, however, he felt too much disgruntled to 
joke with anybody. 

A hawk with a flapping fish clutched in its talons 
scaled in from the south and disappeared among the 
evergreens. Percy suspected that there was a nest 
somewhere in the scrub growth. The search for it 
promised just enough of novelty to keep him in- 
terested. Making a detour around the north shore, 
so as to keep out of sight of Captain Higgins, he 
began hunting for the nest in the tops of the low 
trees. 

Two hours went by fruitlessly. It was hot and 
breathless in the close woods. Despite his dislike 
for clam chowder, Percy found himself growing 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

hungry. At last he gave up the search in disgust, 
and started back for camp by the shortest route. 

As he emerged into the cool breeze on the summit 
of the high southern shore he saw that the Calista 
still lay at anchor in the cove. Lane was alongside 
her in the pea-pod, while Jim and Throppy were 
rounding Brimstone Point in the Barracouta, with 
the dory in tow. The keenness of Percy’s appetite 
made him careless of whether he was seen or not. 
He took the trail leading along the edge of the past- 
ure. Directly below him the bank broke off in 
an abrupt dirt slope seventy-five feet high, overhung 
by a brow of sagging turf. 

Behind and above the cabin the slope was un- 
usually steep. As Percy reached this point his eye 
was caught by a smoke-feather on the southern 
horizon. Steamers always interested him: Stop- 
ping, and shading his eyes with his hand, he gazed 
intently at the distant vessel. The Barracouta was 
now just entering the cove; the thudding of her 
exhaust echoed loudly against the barrier of earth 
beneath his feet. 

The rapid detonations, beating upon Percy’s ear- 
drums, drowned until too late the quick pad-pad 
of hoofs from the opposite direction. Engrossed in 
watching the steamer, he had forgotten everything 
else. A nasal, threatening bleat, rising suddenly 
behind, roused him to a sense of danger. He whirled 
about. 

Charging straight at him, head down, only a few 
feet distant, old Aries, the ram, sptimed the turf 
with drumming hoofs. 

Behind lay the treeless pasture; in front the bank 
120 


REBELLION IN CAMP 

fell away steeply. Instant flight along the trail 
was Percy’s only resort. He turned to run. 

As he jammed his heel down hard to gain mo- 
mentum for his start, the overhanging sod broke 
suddenly. His foot slumped, and before he could 
recover himself his foe was upon him. 

Biff! 

Struck from behind with the force of a battering- 
ram, Percy shot over the brink. As he fell he de- 
scribed a partial somersault, landing on hands and 



knees half-way down the slope. His momentum 
carried him heels over head, and he rolled and tum- 
bled the rest of the way, bringing up in a heap 
at the bottom. 

He scrambled to his feet, wild with rage. Peals 
of mirth from the cove reached his ears. His mates 
and Captain Higgins, as soon as they saw that he 
was not seriously hurt, had doubled up with laugh- 
ter. Their outburst of merriment increased Percy’s 
fury. 

A triumphant bleat resounded above. Outlined 
clearly against a background of blue sky, legs well 
apart and hoofs braced stoutly, Aries stood on the 

I2I 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

brink, gazing proudly down upon his overthrown 
enemy. White with wrath, Percy groped for a 
stone and launched it viciously. It just grazed 
the ram’s head. The laughter from the cove re- 
doubled. 

A new idea struck Percy. Darting into the cabin, 
he ran out with Uncle Tom’s shot-gun. 

‘‘None of that, Whittington!” bellowed Spiurling. 

Heedless of the shouted command, Percy clapped 
the gun to his shoulder and pulled first one trigger 
and then the other. Click! Click! Both barrels 
were empty. He might have remembered that so 
careful a fellow as Jim would never leave a loaded 
gun standing about. But there were a half-dozen 
shells in a box on the shelf. Laying the gim down, 
he rushed back into the cabin. 

Spurling realized what Percy was after. Springing 
into the dory, he sculled rapidly to the beach. He 
had almost reached the shore when Whittington 
dashed out of the door with the shells in his hands. 
He crammed two into the breech, while the ram 
gazed haughtily down upon him. 

“Put that gun down!” shouted Jim as the dory 
grounded and he leaped out on the beach. 

Up went the weapon to Percy’s shoulder. His 
finger sought the trigger, but no report followed. 
The ram had vanished and the sky-line was unbroken. 

Before the exasperated lad could decide on his 
next step Jim was at his side, clutching at stock and 
barrel with strong hands. 

“Give it to me!” 

There was a short scuffle, and the gun was 
wrenched from Percy’s grasp. 

122 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


“Let me alone, Spurling! I’ll kill that brute be- 
fore he’s ten minutes older!” 

“Oh no, you won’t!” replied Jim, coolly. 

Breaking open the weapon, he extracted the shells 
and dropped them into his pocket. 

“How many of these did you bring out?” 

“Never you mind!” 

“Oh, well, I know how many I had. I can count 
’em. They’re too dangerous to be lying around 
loose where a hothead like you can get hold of ’em.” 

He took the gun into the cabin. In half a minute 
he was out again. 

“Two missing! Hand ’em over, Whittington!” 

“I won’t!” 

Three steps, marvelously quick for so deliberate 
a fellow, brought Spurling to the other’s side. An 
iron grip compressed Percy’s shoulder. 

“Will you give ’em to me or shall I have to take 
’em? Say quick!” 

The strong, unwavering grasp brought Whitting- 
ton to his senses. Thrusting his hand into his 
pocket, he brought out the shells. “Here they 
are!” 

Jim bestowed them carefully inside his coat. His 
manner changed instantly. 

“Now, Percy,” said he, “pull yourself together! 
I don’t wonder you were sore at the ram. What 
you got was enough to rile anybody; it would have 
set me hunting rocks myself. But you’ll have to 
draw the line a long way this side of a gun. You 
can’t blame the brute; it’s his nature. And you 
can’t blame us for laughing — ^we couldn’t help it; 
you’d do the same in our place. The thing’s over 
123 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

now. Forget it! Let’s eat a good dinner, and all 
take hold on the fish this afternoon. We’ve made 
a whopping big catch, not much under three thou- 
sand pounds, I should say — enough, at any rate, to 
keep us all busy till dark. Let’s bury the hatchet, 
handle and all, so deep that it ’ll never be dug up 
again! Shake on it!” 

Whittington ignored Jim’s outstretched hand. 
Trembling with humiliation and anger, he had all 
he could do to keep the tears from his eyes. Turn- 
ing away without replying, he walked eastward 
along the beach to the ledges. He clambered over 
these imtil he gained a spot out of sight of the cove, 
then threw himself down to think. His hunger had 
disappeared; food would have choked him. 

There he lay till the middle of the afternoon, 
smoking moodily. When he returned to camp at 
three he had decided on his course of action. 

All the others were aboard the Barracouta, at 
work on the fish. 

Spurling hailed Percy. '‘Want to lend a hand, 
Whittington?” 

“No!” refused Percy, shortly. 

Entering the cabin, he made a dry lunch on cold 
biscuit and soda-crackers, then threw himself on 
his bunk and began reading. The afternoon dragged 
on. At five Filippo came in and began to peel 
potatoes and slice ham for supper; soon they were 
frying in the spider. The smell was pleasant in 
Percy’s nostrils. 

Half an hour later in came the others, tired and 
hungry. The fish had been finished. All sat down 
at the table, Percy, uninvited, drawing up his soap- 

124 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


box with the rest. Nobody said anything to him, 
but he ate with a relish. 

The meal over, Spurling turned to him with a 
serious face. It was plain he had something of im- 
portance on his mind. 

‘‘Whittington,” said he, “IVe been talking mat- 
ters over with Budge and Throppy, and we’re all 
agreed it’s time we came to an understanding. 
Things can’t go on in this way any longer. To put 
the matter in a nutshell, we can’t afford to have you 
living off us and not working. You’ve got to do your 
share or quit. That’s all there is to it.” 

Percy reddened with wrath. Nobody but John 
P. Whittington had ever dared to speak like that 
to him before. 

“What do you mean by making such talk to me?” 
he demanded. “You needn’t be afraid but you’ll 
be well paid for every meal I’ve eaten in this old 
shack!” 

“That isn’t the point at all,” said SpurHng. “I 
gave yotu* father fair warning what it would be 
when you came out here. We’re not running any 
Waldorf!” 

Percy gave a derisive laugh. 

“And that’s no dream!” he interjected, sarcas- 
tically. 

Spurling paid no attention to the interruption. 

“We’re out here for work,” he continued. “That 
means you as well as everybody else. I didn’t count 
on you for much, but you haven’t done even that.” 

“I’ve known for the last week you were trying to 
freeze me out,” observed Percy. “It’s been cold 
enough about this camp to make ice.” 

125 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

*‘Well, whose fault has it been?” 

‘'You treat that little Dago better than you do 
me!” 

‘What of it? He’s earning his salt, and a good 
deal more; and that’s something your best friend 
couldn’t accuse you of doing.” 

Percy’s temper was fast getting the better of 
him. 

“I’m not going to stop here to be kicked roimd 
by a bunch of Rubes like you,” he snarled. “I 
won’t stand for it any longer. I’ll give you ten 
dollars to set me over on Matinicus to-night.” 

There was a dangerous flicker in Spurling’s eyes, 
but his voice was steady. 

“You can go, and welcome, on our next trip, 
day after to-morrow; but we can’t break into our 
regular work to set you across.” 

“No? Say twenty, then! And that’s nowhere 
near what it ’d be worth to me to be. shut of you and 
your whole gang!” 

“I’m beginning to think I did wrong in stopping 
that fight at Vinalhaven yesterday. Guess you 
needed all you got and more, too!” 

In Percy’s wrathful condition the reference to the 
pummeling he had received from Jabe came like a 
dash of acid in a raw wound. A flood of fury swept 
away his judgment. 

“You beggar !’ ’ he shouted. “You dollar-squeezer I 
I’ll teach you to talk to me, you — !” 

He flung himself on Spurling with clenched fists. 

So sudden and unexpected was the onslaught that 
there was but one thing for Jim to do, and he did it, 
expeditiously and accurately. Percy went over 
126 


REBELLION IN CAMP 


backward and fell like a log. For a moment he lay 
motionless, then staggered up, feeling of his face. 

“What hit me?” he inquired, dazedly. 

“I did — ^right on the point of the jaw. Sorry I 
had to. Feel better?” 

Percy made no reply. Walking unsteadily to his 
bunk, he lay down. There was no violin-playing 
in the cabin that night. 

9 


XI 


TURN OF TIDE 

AT half past eight that night Camp Spurling was 
/x dark and quiet. Everybody was asleep but 
Percy Whittington. He lay in his bunk, wide awake 
and thinking hard, and his thoughts were far from 
pleasant. 

His face was still sore as a result of his battle 
with Jabe. His jaw ached dully from its encounter 
with Jim Spurling’s fist. But worse than any physi- 
cal pain was the smart of his wounded pride. 

Life in that cramped, tarry, fishy cabin was hard 
enough for a fellow who had lived at the best hotels 
and had the cream of everything. This painful 
wrenching of dollars out of the sea told sorely on 
his tender sldn and imdeveloped muscles. Yet be- 
neath the surface he had enough of his father’s 
stubbornness to make him stick doggedly to his 
lot, disagreable though it was, if only he could have 
felt that he was receiving the consideration due to 
the son of John P. Whittington. 

Spurling’s blow was the straw that had broken 
the camel’s back. Percy had endured it just as 
long as he could. He had reached his limit 

“I hate the whole bunch,” he thought, bitterly. 
‘‘Everybody’s down on me, even to the dog. I 
128 


TURN OF TIDE 

won't stand it any longer. I'm going to get out 
to-night." 

His mind once made up, he promptly began plan- 
ning. He decided to take one of the boats and row 
up to Isle au Haut. It was a good ten miles to 
Head Harbor, but he felt confident he could reach 
it long before daybreak. Leaving the boat there, 
he would tramp six miles up the island and catch 
the early steamer for Stonington. Beyond that his 
plans did not go. 

A flicker of light from the dying fire in the stove 
fell on the face of the alarm-clock ticking tinnily 
on the shelf. It was quarter to nine. 

Percy woke to the need of acting at once. At 
midnight Filippo would get up to make coffee and 
warm the baked beans and corn-bread for Spurling 
and Stevens, who were to start for the hake-grounds 
not far from one. By that time he must be miles 
away — too far, at any rate, to be overtaken. Over- 
taken? He smiled sardonically. Not one of them, 
he knew, would lift a finger to prevent him from 
going. He could just as well set out in the daytime. 
But his pride shrank from the relieved faces and 
grudging farewells that would signalize his depart- 
ure. No; it would be far better to slip away by 
night, without saying anything to anybody. But 
his going must be unobserved. It would be humil- 
iating to be detected. 

Cautiously he crept out of his bunk and pulled 
on his clothes, stopping apprehensively to Hsten for 
the regular breathing of his sleeping mates. But no 
one woke. The dying embers snapped in the stove. 
Nemo, slumbering on his canvas, stirred uneasily. 

129 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Yet, so stealthy were Percy’s movements, not even 
the dog’s keen ears telegraphed them to his alert 
brain. 

A few minutes sufficed for the deserter to dress 
and crowd his more valuable belongings into a suit- 
case. Noiselessly he lifted the latch and stepped 
outside. 

It was a lovely summer night. A southwest 
breeze barely rippled the sea, a sheet of sapphire 
under the raffiant stars. Tiny wavelets broke crisply 
on the pebbled beach. From the boiilders that 
fringed the point came the drowsy murmur of the 
surf. A sheep bleated plaintively high above in 
the pasture; while far over the ocean to the south 
floated the faint, weird cry of a gull. 

The tide was more than half down, and dory and 
pea-pod lay high and dry on the shingle. The sloop 
rode at her mooring in the cove. Percy hesitated. 
Her engine would take him to Head Harbor in less 
than two hours, and save him a long, hard row. But 
no. Her absence would interfere seriously with 
pulling the trawls and lose Spurling & Company a 
good many dollars. Bitter though his feelings were, 
he did not wish to cause financial loss. He decided 
on the pea-pod. 

Ten feet of gravel lay between her stem and the 
water. Grasping her gunwale, Percy dragged her 
inch by inch gratingly down over the shingle, every 
sound magnified to his ears by his dread of discovery. 
He worked with the caution of an escaping convict. 
Now and then he glanced nervously toward the 
cabin, but from its gloomy interior came no sign 
that he was seen or heard. Apparently Spurling 
130 


TURN OF TIDE 


and his mates were sleeping the sleep of the dead. 
At the end of five minutes the pea-pod was afloat. 

Percy tossed in his suit-case and clambered hastily 
aboard. There was no time to waste. He wished 
to put as much salt water as possible between himself 
and TarpauHn Island before midnight. 

Shipping his oars, he began to row, using infinite 
care lest creaking rowlock or splashing blade betray 
him. Gradually he drew out of the cove, and there 
was less need of caution. As he rounded Brimstone 
Point he cast one last, long look at the cabin, square 
and black and silent. 

The remembrance of his discomforts and indigni- 
ties of the last three weeks surged over him. He 
shook his fist at his vanishing prison. 

‘‘Good riddance!” he muttered. “Hope I’ll never 
set eyes again on you or the bunch inside you!” 

He bent to his oars with redoubled vigor, and 
presently a high boulder shut out the camp. In 
five minutes more he had rounded the point and was 
pulling north on the heaving Atlantic swell. 

The tide was running out strongly. It came 
swirling round Brimstone in rips and eddies. Percy 
had never before realized that its force was so 
great. He made a hasty calculation, and was 
very unpleasantly surprised to discover that he 
would have to pull against it for fully ninety 
minutes ere it turned to run the other way. He 
began to feel less sure of reaching Head Harbor 
before daybreak. 

“Guess I’ve bitten off an all-night job,” thought 
he, disconsolately. 

But there was no help for it — -unless he desired 
131 


’ JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

to slink back to the camp he had just abandoned 
with such thief-like stealth. Percy set his teeth. 

‘‘Not while I’ve got arms to pull with!” 

Before buckling to his task he glanced about. 
On his left rose the familiar shores of Tarpaulin. 
Miles to his right and almost due west the twin 
lights on Matinicus Rock twinkled faintly across 
the sea; while behind him, a little to the west of 
north, shone the single star of Saddleback, a good 
four leagues away. The dark-blue summer sky, 
unmarred by the slightest cloud-fleck, was brilliant 
with constellations. 

It was a night of nights for an astronomer or a poet, 
but Percy was neither. He had no eyes for the 
splendor that overhung him. Ten long, watery 
miles must be traversed before he could beach his 
pea-pod in the little haven behind Eastern Head. 
Would his arms stand the strain? 

His muscles were harder and stronger than they 
had been in the middle of June. Likewise, his grit 
had strengthened with his physique. 

“I’ll make Head Harbor before Hght, if it kills 
me!” 

Turning, he scanned the starry sky, and by means 
of his scanty knowledge of astronomy identified the 
Great Dipper. Its pointers located the North Star. 
Under it he knew lay Isle au Haut, now a low, 
black ridge on the horizon, east of Saddleback Light. 

Percy settled himself on the thwart, steeled his 
muscles, and gripped the oars harder. Short as his 
inaction had been, he could see that the tide had 
swept him back a trifle. It was going to be no picnic, 
that pull in to Eastern Head ! 

132 


TURN OF TIDE 


He threw all his strength into his arms, and again 
the boat made headway against the tide. By de- 
grees Tarpaulin Island fell back. Before long it 
lay behind him — as he planned, forever. His anger 
still burned hot against Spurling and his associates. 

Treated me like a dog, the beggars! Well, who 
cares for ’em? Let ’em sweat out their dollars 
catching fish and lobsters! I’ll get my cash some 
easier way.” 

The thought of money brought back the memory 
of his father, and with it a faint uneasiness. Up to 
this time, engrossed in making his escape, Percy 
had not troubled to look beyond the immediate 
future. Isle au Haut had bounded his mental as 
well as his optical horizon. But after that what? 

Stonington . . . Rockland . . . Boston . . . New 
York . . . two months of living on his acquaintances 
. . . and then — ^John P. Whittington! 

Percy could picture the expression on the mil- 
lionaire’s features when he learned that his son had 
broken his promise and sneaked away from Tar- 
paulin Island, like a thief in the night. That grim 
face with its bulldog jaw was one any erring son 
well might dread, and particularly such a son as 
he had thus far been. John Whittington had told 
Percy plainly that the island was his last chance, 
and, whatever faults the millionaire might have, he 
was not the man to break his word. 

For the young deserter it was liable to be out of 
the frying-pan and into the fire with a vengeance. 

Percy had been in the frying-pan three weeks; 
life there, though not pleasant, had been endurable. 

At any rate, he had seen the worst of it; but for 
133 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

his wounded pride, he could have schooled himself 
to withstand its hardships, for they would have been 
only temporary. 

What the fire might have in store for him he did 
not know; but one thing he did know, and that 
was John P. Whittington! 

Not unimaginably, there might be far worse 
places than Tarpaulin Island. 

The lad’s elation at his easily earned freedom 
vanished. The snap and vim went out of his strokes, 
and his speed slackened perceptibly. Though he 
still dragged doggedly at the oars, there was no 
longer any heart in his pulling. 

Westward, almost in line with the beacon on 
Matinicus Rock, grew a fairy pyramid of twinkling 
lights — ^the Portland boat, bound for St. John. 
Larger, higher, brighter, nearer, until they burned, 
a sparkling triangle of white and red and green. 
Soon the steamer crossed his bow not far to the north. 
He could hear the rush of foam and the throbbing 
of her screw. Gradually she passed eastward and 
blended again with the horizon. 

Slower and weaker fell Percy’s blades, until the 
pea-pod was barely moving. The ebb, still running 
against the boat with undiminished strength, almost 
sufficed to hold her stationary. But, though the 
lad’s muscles were relaxed and Hstless, a fierce battle 
was being fought out in his troubled brain. 

Should he keep on or should he go back? 

Go back? Return to two months more of the 
uncongenial drudgery from which he had been so 
glad to escape? Besides, he could hardly hope to 
drag the pea-pod up on the beach and regain his 
134 


TURN OF TIDE 


bunk without attracting the notice of somebody in 
the cabin. He could imagine the talk of the others 
when he was out of hearing. 

“Started to run away, but got cold feet and 
sneaked back again. Hadn’t the sand to carry it 
through! We’d better sack him when the four weeks 
are up.” 

His futile midnight sally would only result in 
added humiliation. 

But what if he kept on? Already more than an 
hour had passed. It would not be many minutes 
now before the tide would turn. The ebb would 
cease running out, and the flood would set just as 
strongly the other way, bearing him in toward 
Isle au Haut. To row with it would be an easy 
matter. 

Head Harbor before daybreak. Boston or New 
Y ork the morning after. Two months or more of easy 
living in the same old way. After that the deluge, 
alias John P. Whittington. 

Isle au Haut or Tarpaulin Island, which should 
it be? Beads of sweat started on Percy’s face as he 
wrestled out his problem. 

Far more was involved than the mere question of 
going north or south. He had come to the parting 
of the ways. His whole life hung in the balance. 
Floating in that frail skiff on the uneasy swell, he 
realized that everything depended on the direction 
in which he swung the prow. His future lay in 
his oar-blades. 

Under the horizon north and west stretched the 
coast. He closed his eyes and saw a vision of the 
feverish city life he knew and loved so well — lighted 
135 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

streets thronged with gay crowds, human banks 
between which flowed rivers of velvet-shod automo- 
biles and clanging cars; hotel lobbies and theaters 
and restuarants alive with men and women who had 
never stooped to toil; all the luxury and glare and 
glitter that wait upon modem wealth. This was 
what he was fitting himself for. What did it all 
amount to? 

He opened his eyes and came back to the little 
boat, rocking gently on the undulating swells; to 
the lonely glory of the peaceful ocean, arched by 
the starry sky. A light breeze was beginning to 
blow from the southwest, dispersing the thin silver 
mist that overhimg the water. 

Percy glanced at his watch; it was quarter past 
ten, almost time for the ebb to cease and the flood 
to begin. 

Should he keep on or go back? He must decide 
quickly. Already his arms were tired, and he was 
more than two miles north of the island. The longer 
he delayed his decision the harder would be his pull 
against the flood if he turned. 

Minutes passed as he pondered, barely dipping his 
oars. It was slack tide now and the pea-pod just 
held her own. Down on the breeze floated a distant, 
melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy 
south of Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au 
Haut. Was it an invitation or a warning? 

Slowly at first, then faster, the stem of the boat 
swung roimd. The tide had turned. The flood 
would carry him north with but Httle effort on his 
part. Should he let himself go with it? 

Percy’s indecision vanished. The tide of his own 
136 


TURN OF TIDE 


life had turned, like that of the ocean; slow and 
doubtful though the change had been, the current 
was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar- 
handles tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod 
southward and started again for Tarpaulin Island. 


XII 


PULLING TOGETHER 

T he next hour and a naif was anything but fun 
for young Whittington. His mind was set on 
reaching Camp Spurling before the hands of the 
alarm-clock came together at midnight. At any 
cost he must be in his bunk before the others woke. 

It was a long, hard row, a battle every second 
with the tide running against him with untiring 
strength. It demanded every ounce of energy Percy 
possessed. His back complained dully. His arms 
felt as if they would drop off. Time and again he 
decided that the next stroke must be his last, that 
he must lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest ; 
but each time he tapped some hitherto unknown 
reservoir of power within himself, and kept on pulling. 

With the stem demand on his physical forces 
a change was being wrought in his brain. His 
foolish pride, his false sense of shame at changing 
his hasty plan to desert, his bitter feeling toward the 
others, gradually disappeared. Every oar-stroke 
brought him not only nearer the island, but also 
nearer a sane, wholesome view of life itself. 

His thoughts turned naturally to the group at 
the camp, this clean, independent, self-respecting 
crowd, who cared no more for his money than for 
138 


PULLING TOGETHER 

the pebbles on the beach; who estimated a fellow, 
not by what he had, but by what he was. After 
all, that was the real test; Percy could not help 
acknowledging it. 

Saddleback glimmered astern. The whistle south 
of Roaring Bull was growing fainter. Percy felt 
encouraged. He turned his head. Yes, Tarpaulin 
was certainly nearer. Disheartening though the 
pull was, he had gained perceptibly. But the south- 
west breeze had stiffened, adding its opposition to 
that of the tide. 

It was now past eleven. He had decided that he 
must reach the cabin not later than quarter to 
twelve. Barely half an hour longer! His hands 
were blistered, his breath came in sobs, but he 
dragged fiercely at the oars. At last he was stem- 
ming the strong tide-rip off Brimstone Point. 

The next ten minutes were worse than all that 
had gone before. As he surged unevenly backward 
and forward, the current swung the pea-pod’s bow 
first one way, then the other. Deaf and blind to 
everything but the work in hand, Percy swayed to 
and fro. Foot by foot the boat crept round the fring- 
ing surf at the base of the bluffs. 

Hands seemed to be plucking at her keel, holding 
her back. It was no use. They were too strong 
for him. All at once their grasp weakened. He 
glanced up with swimming eyes. He had passed the 
eddy, and the entrance of the cove was near. A few 
strokes more and the pea-pod grounded on the beach. 
It was twenty minutes to twelve! 

Percy staggered up to the cabin. All was dark 
and quiet. Gently lifting the latch, he slipped in- 
139 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

side, pulled the door to again, and stood listening. 
The regular breathing of his sleeping mates reassured 
him. Compelling himself to walk noiselessly to his 
bunk, he crept under his blanket without even 
taking off his shoes. 

He had been gone three hours; and they had been 
the most momentous hours of his life. 

KUng-ng-ng-ng-ng . . . 

Off went the clock. It was midnight. Mutter- 
ing drowsily, Filippo slid out of his bunk, checked 
the alarm, and lighted a lamp. Then he busied 
himself with his cooking-utensils. 

The last thing Percy heard was a spoon clinking 
against a pan. Dead tired, he turned his face to 
the wall and fell asleep. 

It was eight in the morning before he woke. What 
had made his arms and back so lame and raised 
those big blisters on his hands? Percy remembered. 
He lay for a few minutes, his eyes shut. An un- 
pleasant duty was before him, and he must be sure 
to do it right. 

Aching in every joint, he rolled out at last and 
stood up stiffly. Filippo, who was washing the break- 
fast dishes, turned at the sound. His face was 
neither hostile nor friendly. 

“Your breakfast in oven,” said he. “Sit down 
and I get it.” 

He set before Percy a plate of smothered cod and 
a half-dozen hot biscuits. It was more thoughtful- 
ness than Percy had expected. 

“Much obliged, Filippo,” he said, gratefully. 

Filippo made no reply to this acknowledgment; 
but, as Percy ate, he could feel the young Italian 
140 


PULLING TOGETHER 


watching him curiously. It was the first time Whit- 
tington had ever thanked him, and he did not 
understand it. 

After he had finished eating, Percy took his plate, 
knife, and fork to the sink. 

“Let me wash these, Filippo,** he said. 

“No,” returned the Italian, “I do it.** 

But a look of surprise crossed his face. What had 
come over the millionaire's son ? 

Percy spent the rest of the forenoon on the ledges. 
At noon he came back to the cabin. He had steeled 
himself for the task before him, and he was not the 
fellow to do things half-way. The John P. Whitting- 
ton in him was coming out. 

Everybody else was in camp when he stepped in- 
side. Lane did not look at him at all. Spurling 
and Stevens nodded coolly. Percy drew a long 
breath and launched at once into the brief speech 
he had spent the last three hours dreading. 

“Fellows,** he stammered, “I’ve been pretty rot- 
ten to all of you. There’s no need of wasting any 
more words about that. Last night I took one of 
the boats and started to row up to Isle au Haut. 
But I got to thinking matters over out there on 
the water, and it changed my mind about a lot of 
things. So I came back. Jim, I want to apologize 
to you for what I said last night. I deserved what 
you gave me, and it’s done me good. I want to stay 
here with you for the rest of the summer — if you’re 
willing. I’ll try to do my full share of the work. 
You can send me off the first time I shirk.” 

He ceased and awaited the verdict, looking eagerly 
from one to the other. There was a moment of 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

silence. Surprise was written large on the faces of 
the three Academy men. Then Spurling stepped 
forward and held out his hand. 

“Percy,’' said he, with a break in his voice, 
“I’ve always thought you had the right stuff in 
you, if you’d only give yourself half a chance. For 
one, I’ll be more than pleased to have you stop. 
What do you say, boys?” 

He glanced toward Lane and Stevens. 

“Sure!” exclaimed Lane, heartily; and Stevens 
seconded him. 

The boys shook hands all round; and they sat 
down to the table with good appetites. Everybody 
enjoyed the meal. 

“Boys,” said Jim as they got up at its close, 
“this is the best dinner we’ve had since we came out 
here.” 

Percy’s heart warmed toward the speaker. He 
knew that it was not the food alone that made Jim 
say what he did. 

It- had been Percy’s habit to smoke three or four 
cigarettes during the half-hoirr of rest all were ac- 
customed to take after the noon meal. He went, 
as usual, to his suit-case, and this time took out, 
not merely one package, but all he had, including 
his sack of loose tobacco and two books of wrappers. 

“Got a good fire, FiHppo?” he inquired, approach- 
ing the stove. 

A burst of flame answered him as he lifted the 
cover. In went the whole handful. He watched it 
bum for a moment before dropping the lid. 

“I’m done with you for good,” he said. 

As Lane and Spurling started for the Barracouta 

142 


PULLING TOGETHER 


to dress the fifteen hundred pounds of hake they had 
taken off the trawls that morning Percy joined them, 
clad in oilskins. 

“Jim,” he petitioned, “I want you to teach me 
how to spHt fish.” 

“Do you mean it, Percy?” asked Spurling. 

“You heard what I said this noon about shirking. 
I’m through with dodging any kind of work just 
because it’s unpleasant. I want to take my part 
with the rest of you.” 

“I’ll teach you,” said Jim. 

He did, and found that he had an apt pupil. 
Percy worked until the last pound of the fifteen 
hundred was salted down in the hogshead. He dis- 
covered that it was not half so bad as it had looked, 
and felt ashamed that he had not tried his hand at 
the trick before. 

“You’ve earned your supper to-night,” observed 
Jim. 

“Yes; but I’m glad it’s something besides fish.” 

“You’ll get so you won’t mind it after a while.” 

That night Throppy played his violin and the 
boys sang. They passed a pleasant hour before 
going to bed. 

“I’d like to go out with you to the trawls, Jim, 
to-morrow morning,” said Percy. 

“Glad to have you,” responded Spurling, heartily. 

Two hours before light they were gliding out of 
the cove in the Barracoutaj bound for Medrick 
Shoal, four miles to the eastward. 

“Percy,” said Jim as the sloop rolled rh3d:hmic- 
ally on the long Atlantic swells, “I want to tell you 
something. I was awake the other night when you 
10 ^43 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

left camp. I watched you row north and come back; 
and I saw the hard fight you had round Brimstone. 
I’m glad you made a clean breast of the whole 
thing, even when you thought nobody knew any- 
thing about it. It showed me you intended to turn 
over a new leaf and play fair. You’U find that we’ll 
meet you half-way, and more.” 

Percy was silent for a moment. 

‘'Glad I didn’t know you heard me go out,” he 
remarked. “If I had I might not have had the 
courage to come back. Well, I’ve learned my les- 
son. From now on I’ll try not to give you fellows 
any reason to find fault with me.” 

Medrick Shoal yielded a good harvest. About 
eighteen hundred pounds of hake lay in the pens on 
the Barracouta when they started for home at ten 
o’clock. As they took the last of their gear aboard, 
a schooner with auxiliary power, apparently a fisher- 
man, approached from the eastward. 

“The Cassie read Spurling, deciphering the 
letters on the bow. “Somehow she looks natural, 
but I don’t remember ever hearing that name before. 
Probably from Gloucester. Wonder what she wants 
of us.” 

The vessel slowed down and changed her course 
until she was running straight toward the Barracouta. 
One of her crew stood in the bow, near the star- 
board anchor; another held the wheel; but nobody 
else was visible. 

“Where are you from, boys?” hailed the lookout, 
when the stranger was only a few yards off. 

“Tarpaulin Island,” answered Spurling. 

The man put his hand behind his ear. 

144 


PULLING TOGETHER 


“Say that again louder, will you?” he shouted. 
“I’m a little deaf.” 

Jim raised his voice. 

“I said we were from Tarpaulin Island.” 

The lookout passed the word back to the helms- 
man. The latter repeated it, evidently for the 
benefit of somebody in the cabin. Then the man 
at the wheel took up the conversation, prompted 
by the low voice of an unseen speaker below. 

“How many fish have you got there?” 

“Eighteen hundred of hake.” 

“What’s that?” 

Was everybody aboard hard of hearing? Jim 
raised his voice. 

“Eighteen hundred of hakel’f 

“What ’ll you take for ’em just as they are? 
We’ll give you fifty cents a hundred.” 

“Can’t trade with you for any such figiu*e as that.” 

“Good-by, then!” 

The tip of the Cassie J.'s bowsprit was less than 
two yards from the port bow of the Barracouta, 
altogether too near for comfort. 

“Keep off!” roared Spurling. “You’ll run us 
down!” 

The steersman whirled his wheel swiftly in the 
apparent endeavor to avert a collision. Unluckily, 
he whirled it the wrong way. Round swung the 
schooner’s bow, directly toward the sloop. A few 
seconds more and she would be forced down be- 
neath the larger vessel’s cutwater, ridden under. 

Only Jim’s coolness prevented the catastrophe. 
The instant he saw the Cassie J. turn toward his 
boat he flung his helm to port. The sloop, under 
145 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

good headway, responded more quickly than the 
schooner. For a moment the bowsprit of the lat- 
ter seesawed threateningly along the jibstay of the 
smaller craft. Then the two drew apart. 

Jim was white with anger. It was only by the 
greatest good fortune that the Barracouta had es- 
caped. 

“What do you mean, you lubber?’* he cried. 
“Can’t you steer?” 

“Jingo! but that was a close shave!” responded 
the man at the wheel. “I must have lost my head 
for a minute.” 

The mock concern in his face and voice would 
have been evident to Spurling without the liu-king 
grin that accompanied his reply. An angry answer 
was on the tip of Jim’s tongue. He choked it down. 
Soon the two craft were some distance apart. 

On the Cassie J. a man’s head rose stealthily 
above the slide of the companionway. He fastened 
a steady gaze on the sloop. The distance was now 
too great for the boys to distinguish his features, but 
a sudden idea struck Jim. He slapped his thigh. 

“Percy!” he exclaimed. “Do you remember the 
two fellows we caught stealing sheep the first night 
we were on Tarpaulin? I feel sure as ever I was of 
anything in my life that they’re both on board that 
schooner. That’s Captain Bart Brittler, sticking 
his head out of the companionway; and Dolph’s 
somewhere below.” 

“But what are they doing on the Cassie J.? Their 
vessel was named the Silicon'* 

“They’re one and the same craft! I’m certain of 
it. I recognize her rig now, even if it was night 
146 


PULLING TOGETHER 


when I saw her the first time. As for the name, it’s 
only paint-deep, anyway; you can see that those 
letters look fresh. Of course it’s an offense against 
the law to make a change, but such a little thing as 
breaking a law wouldn’t trouble a man like Brittler.” 

'‘Do you think they tried to run us down?” 

“Not a doubt of it! Brittler and Dolph stayed 
below, afraid we might recognize ’em. They didn’t 
see our faces that night, so they don’t know how 
we look; but they tried to make me talk enough so 
that they might recognize my voice. Guess that 
lookout’s not so deaf as he pretended to be! Once 
Brittler felt sure who it was, he gave orders to the 
wheelman to run over us. He’d have done it, too, 
if I hadn’t seen the schooner’s bow stast swinging 
the wrong way.” 

The Cassie J, slowly outdistanced the sloop. By 
the time the stranger was a quarter-mile off six 
or seven men had appeared on her deck. 

‘ ‘ Feel it’s safe for ’em to come up now, ’ ’ commented 
Spurling. “Wonder what they’re cruising along the 
coast for, anyway! Something easier and more 
crooked than fishing, I guess! Here’s hoping they 
steer clear of Tarpaulin!” 

At dinner that noon the boys related their narrow 
escape to the others, and all agreed it would be well 
to keep a sharp lookout for Brittler and his gang. 

“They’ve got a grudge against us, fast enough,” 
said Lane. “They intend to even matters up if they 
can find the chance.” 

That afternoon Percy again wielded the splitting- 
knife. 

“You’ll soon get the knack of it,” approved Jim. 
147 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

'‘Don’t pitch in too hard at first. Later on, after 
you grow used to it, you can work twice as fast, 
and it won’t tire you half so much.” 

In dressing a fifteen-pound hake Percy came upon 
a mass of feathers in the stomach. He was about to 
throw them aside, when a silvery ghnt caught his 
eye. 

“What's that?” he exclaimed. 

Rinsing the mass in a pail of water, he picked from 
it the foot of a bird; round its slender ankle was a 
little band of German silver or aluminum, bearing 
the inscription, “U43719.” He held it up for the 
others to inspect. 

“That’s the foot of a carrier-pigeon!” said 
Throppy. “I know a fellow at home who makes a 
specialty of raising ’em. The bird that owned this 
foot was taking a message to somebody. Perhaps 
he was shot; or he may have become tired, lost his 
way, and fallen into the water, and the hake got 
him.” 

They looked at the little foot with the white- 
metal band. 

“My uncle Tom was fishing once in eighty fath- 
oms off Monhegan,” Spurling remarked, “and pulled 
up an odd-pat temed, blue cup of old English ware. 
The hook caught in a ‘blister,’ a brown, soft, toad- 
stool thing, that had grown over the cup. He’s got 
it on his parlor mantel now.” 

“I’U keep this foot as a souvenir,” said Percy. 

They finished the hake shortly after four. Percy 
shed his oil-clothes, went into the camp, and re- 
appeared with his sweater. Going down to the ledges, 
he pulled off a big armful of rockweed. This he 

148 


PULLING TOGETHER 


stiiffed into the sweater, and tied it together, making 
a close bundle. The others watched him curiously. 

“What are you going to do with that?” inquired 
Lane. 

Percy smiled, but there was a glitter of determina- 
tion in his eyes. 

“I’ll tell you some time,” was all the reply he 
vouchsafed. 

Taking the bundle, now somewhat larger than a 
football, he climbed the steep path at the end of 
the bank, and started for the woods. 

“I’ll be home before supper,” he flung back as 
he disappeared beyond the crest of the bluff. 

In less than an hour he was back, bringing the 
sweater minus the rockweed. His face was flushed, 
and streaked with lines where the perspiration had 
run down it, and he was breathing hard. Evidently 
he had been through some sort of strenuous physical 
exercise. 

“It’s all right, boys,” he said, in response to their 
chaffing. “Just a little secret between me and my- 
self. No, I’m not trying to reduce the size of my 
head. Later on you’ll know aU about it.” 

And with that they had to be content. 


XIII 


FOG-BOUND 

F OG-DAYS began about the 20th of July. Be- 
fore that the dwellers in Camp SpurHng had 
experienced occasional spells of fog, but nothing 
very dense or long-continued. Now they got a 
taste of the real thing. They were dressing fish on 
the Barracouta one afternoon when a cold wind 
struck from the southeast. 

Spurling held up his hand. 

“We’re in for it!” said he. “Feel that? Right 
off the Banks! In less than an hour we’ll need a 
compass to get ashore in the dory.” 

He was so nearly right that there was no fun in it. 
The wind hauled more to the east, and in its wake 
came driving a gray, impenetrable wall. The ocean 
vanished. The points on each side of the cove 
were swallowed up. Quickly disappeared the cove 
itself, the beach, the camp and fish-house, and the 
bank beyond them. The sloop was blanketed close 
in heavy mist. 

Jim made a pretense of scooping a handful out of 
the air and shaping it like a snowball. 

“Here you go. Budge!” he exclaimed. “Straight 
to third! Put it on him! Fresh from the factory 
in the Bay of Fundy ! If this holds on until midnight, 
150 


FOG-BO^UND 

we won’t be able to see outside our eyelids when 
we start trawling ; there’s no moon.” 

“Will you go, if it’s thick as it is now?” inquired 
Lane. 

“Sure! Here’s where the compass comes in. If 
we stayed ashore for every little fog-mull, we 
wouldn’t catch many hake the next six weeks. This 
isn’t a circumstance to what it is sometimes. I’ve 
known it to hang on for two weeks at a stretch. 
Ever hear the story of the Penobscot Bay captain 
who started out on a voyage round the world? 
Just as he got outside of Matinicus Rock he shaved 
the edge of a fog-bank, straight up and down as a 
wall. He pulled out his jack-knife and pushed it 
into the fog, clean to the handle. When he came 
back, two and a half years later, there was his knife, 
sticking in the same spot. He tried to pull it out, 
but the blade was so badly rusted that it broke, and 
he had to leave half of it stuck in the hole.” 

“Must have had some fog in those days!” was 
Lane’s comment. “ Did you say this all comes from 
the Bay of Fundy?” 

“Not all of it. Fog both blows and makes up on the 
spot. Sometimes it rises out of the water Hke steam. 
I’ve heard my uncle say that Georges Bank makes 
it as a mill makes meal. It’s worst in August. 
Then the smoke from shore fires mingles with it; 
and the wind from the land blowing off, and that 
from the sea blowing in, keep it hazy along the 
coast all summer.” 

Jim’s predictions proved correct, as they generally 
did. While there were occasional stretches of fine 
weather during the next few weeks, the fog either 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

hovered on the horizon or lurked not far below it, 
ready to bury the island at the slightest provocation 
in the way of an east or southeast wind. Despite its 
presence, the routine of trawling and lobstering went 
on as usual. Every Friday came the regular trip 
to Matinicus to dispose of the salted fish and procure 
groceries, gasolene, and salt, as well as newspapers 
and mail. 

On each of these visits Percy always weighed him- 
self on the scales at the general store. Beginning at 
one hundred and thirty-five, he climbed steadily, 
pound by pound, toward one hundred and fifty. An 
active, out-of-door life, combined with regular hours 
and a simple, wholesome diet, together with the ex- 
clusion of cigarettes, resulted inevitably in increas- 
ing weight and strength. At the close of each after- 
noon he climbed the bluff with his sweater stuffed 
with rockweed. The others joked him considerably 
about these mysterious trips, but failed to extract 
any information from him regarding them. When 
he chose, Percy could be as close-mouthed as his 
father. 

At about this time a letter from the millionaire 
reached his son through the Matinicus office. It 
bore the postmark of San Francisco, and ran as fol- 
lows: 

Dear Percy, — Stick to it. 

Affectionately, 

John P. Whittington. 

It actually surprised Percy to find out how glad 
he was to receive this laconic epistle from his only 
living relative. He cast about for a suitable reply. 

152 


FOG-BOUND 


“I want to send something that 11 please him,” 
he thought. ‘‘He hasn’t had much satisfaction, so 
far, out of me.” 

Finally, after mature deliberation, he indited the 
following : 

Dear Dad, — I^ m sticking. 

Your affectionate son, 

Percy. 

The Three Musketeers gathered dust on the wooden 
shelf. Percy had faced squarely the fact of his col- 
lege conditions, and had determined that they must 
be made up at the opening of the fall term; so his 
spare time went into Virgil and Caesar and algebra 
and geometry, instead of being spent on Dumas. 
He rarely asked for assistance from the others; they 
had little leismre, and it was his own fight. He 
buckled down manfully. 

Another task that he set before himself was the 
establishment of cordial relations with the other 
members of the party. He realized that his own fault 
had made this necessary. It had been an easy mat- 
ter to get on good terms with Jim, Budge, and 
Throppy. With Filippo it was a little harder; but 
soon he, too, thawed out when he found that Percy 
treated him courteously and was wilHng to do his 
share of the camp work. Even Nemo wagged his tail 
when Percy appeared, and the crow grew tame 
enough to eat fish out of his hand. 

One afternoon, when the fog had lifted sufficiently 
to make it possible to see a few hundred feet from the 
island, a motor-boat unexpectedly appeared from 
the north and swung round Brimstone Point into 
153 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

the cove. She ran up alongside the Barracoutay 
where the boys were baiting their trawl. 

“I’m the warden,” said one of the two newcomers, 
a gray-mustached, keen-eyed man. “I’ve come to 
look over your car.” 

Jim took his dip-net and stepped into the motor- 
boat, and they ran up to the lobster-car. A few 
minutes’ investigation of its contents satisfied the 
official that it contained no “shorts.” 

“Glad to be able to give you a clean bill of 
health,” said he as he set Jim back on board the 
sloop. “I wish some other people I know of did 
business as clean and aboveboard as you young 
fellows.” 

A quarter-hour later the sound of his exhaust had 
died away in the fog to the northward. 

“What would he have done if he’d found any 
‘shorts’?” asked Percy. 

“Fined us a dollar for every one,” answered Jim. 
“Taken the cream off ,the summer, wouldn’t it? 
Sometimes it pays, even in dollars and cents, to be 
honest.” 

The next morning was hot and muggy. The sea 
about the island was clear of fog for one or two miles. 
Jim and Budge had started long before light to set 
the trawl, and Throppy wished to make some 
changes on his wireless; so Filippo was glad enough 
of the chance to go out with Percy to haul the lobster- 
traps. 

The little Italian had lost much of his melancholy. 
He enjoyed his work and the good-fellowship of the 
camp. The weeks of association with his new friends 
had made of him an entirely different fellow from the 
154 


FOG-BOUND 


lonely, homesick lad they had picked up on the 
steamboat wharf at Stonington. 

The two boys started in the pea-pod at six o’clock. 
A glassy calm overspread the sea. Even the per- 
petual ocean swell seemed to have lost much of its 
force. 

'‘I’ll row!” volimteered Percy. 

He stripped off his oil-coat and sweater and rolled 
up his shirt-sleeves. 

“It ’ll be hot up in the granite quarries to-day, 
hey, Filippo? S’pose you’re sorry not to be 
there?” 

“Jo sono contento'' (“I am satisfied”), replied the 
Italian. 

Hauling and rebaiting the hundred-odd traps was 
a good five hours’ job and more for the couple, neither 
of whom had ever handled a small boat or seen a live 
lobster before the previous month. As the forenoon 
advanced the air seemed to grow thicker and more 
breathless. Over the water brooded a languid haze, 
through which the sun rays burned with a moist, 
intense heat. 

Percy’s bare arms began to grow red and painful. 

“Feel as if they were being scalded,” he com- 
plained. “I’ve heard Jim say a fog-bum was worse 
than any other kind. Now I know he’s right.” 

Eleven o’clock, and still twenty-five traps to be 
pulled. Most of these were on the Dog and Pups, 
a group of ledges more than a mile northeast of the 
island. It was the best spot for lobsters anywhere 
about Tarpaulin. Percy hesitated. 

“Fog seems to be closing in a little,” he observed, 
“and we haven’t any compass. Should hate to get 
155 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

out there and have it shut down thick. Might be 
hard work to find the island again.** 

He' glanced at the tub of lobsters. 

‘Hf the Dog and Pups keep up anywhere near 
their average, we’ll beat the record. What d’you 
say, Filippo? Shall we take a chance and surprise 
the rest of ’em?** 

Filippo flashed his white teeth. 

“I go with you,” he smiled. 

“Then go it is!” decided Percy. 

He headed the pea-pod for the Dog and Pups. 

“We’ll keep a sharp lookout, and if it starts to 
grow anyways thick we’ll strike back for old Tar- 
paulin.” 

A pull of about twenty minutes brought them to 
the ledges, around which the traps were set in a 
circle. They began hauling at the point in the cir- 
cumference nearest to the island, following the 
buoys west and north. The catch exceeded their 
hopes. 

“We’ll need another tub, if this keeps up,” chuckled 
Percy. 

Filippo laughed jubilantly. The fog was forgotten. 
Their entire attention was centered on the contents 
of each trap as it was pulled. 

Round on the edge of the circle farthest from the 
island a pot refused to leave bottom. Percy tugged 
till he was red in the face, but he could not start it. 

“Catch hold with me, Filippo!” he puffed. 

The Italian joined his strength to Percy’s, but to 
no avail. The slacker still clung to the bottom. The 
boys straightened up, panting. 

“We’ll have to leave it,” acknowledged Percy, dis- 
156 


FOG-BOUND 


appointedly. '‘Probably there’s half a dozen two- 
pound lobsters in it.” 

He looked about and gave a startled cry. 

“Where’s the island?” 

The wooded bluffs of Tarpaulin had disappeared. 
While they had been wrestling with the stubborn 
trap the fog had stolen a march on them. On all 
sides loomed a horizon of gray mist, not a half-mile 
distant and steadily drawing nearer. They must 
locate the island and get back to it at once. 

Percy tossed over the buoy and the warp at which 
they had been pulling. Tarpaulin lay southwest; 
but which way was southwest? Busied with the trap, 
he had utterly lost all sense of direction. The sun? 
He glanced hopefully up. No; that would not help 
any. The fog was too dense. Ha! The surf? 

“Listen hard, Filippo!” he exhorted. 

They strained their ears. No sound. The swell 
was so gentle that it did not break on the ledges of 
the island loudly enough to be heard a mile and a 
quarter off. The heaving circle of which they were 
the center was contracting fast. Its misty walls were 
now less than five hundred feet away. 

“Guess we’d better take a buoy aboard, and hang 
to it till Jim comes out to hunt us up. It ’d make me 
feel cheap to do it, but it’s the only safe way. But 
wait ! What ’s that ? ” 

Both listened again. A sound reached their ears, 
plain and unmistakable, the rote of dashing water. 

“There’s the surf!” rejoiced Percy. “Don’t you 
hear it?” 

“5i, I hear it,” answered Filippo. 

Dropping the buoy he had just gaffed, Percy took 
157 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

the oars and began rowing hard toward the sound, 
which gradually grew louder. The fog came on with 
a rush, sliding over them like an avalanche. It was 
hardly possible to see beyond the tips of the oar- 
blades. 

“Lucky we can hear that surf!’' said Percy, com- 
fortably. “But strange it sounds so loud and so 
near.” 

Now it was close ahead. He stopped rowing, puz- 
zled. A blast of cold air smote them. Suddenly 
there was a rushing all around. It was not the surf 
at all, but waves, breaking before the coming wind. 
They were lost in the fog! 

Percy faced Filippo blankly. For a moment his 
head went round. With bitter regret he now realized 
that in dropping the buoy he had given up a certainty 
for an uncertainty that might cost them dearly. But 
nothing was to be gained by yielding to discourage- 
ment. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore. 

“That wind is probably blowing from some point 
between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, 
and run straight before it, we’ll be likely to hit the 
island.” 

He swung the pea-pod stem to the breeze. 

“Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, 
Filippo!” 

But no buoys appeared. ' They might pass within 
ten feet of one and never see it. Five, ten, twenty, 
thirty minutes passed; and still no sign of Tarpaulin. 
The wind was becoming stronger, the waves higher; 
their mshing was now loud enough to drown the 
sound of any surf that might be breaking on the 
ledges of the island. Percy rowed for a quarter-hour 
158 


FOG-BOUND 


longer, dread plucking at his heart-strings. At last 
he rested on his oars. 

“We’ve missed it,” he acknowledged, despond- 
ently. 

They were lost now in good earnest. It was one 
o’clock. The fog hung over them like a heavy gray 
pall, so damp and thick that it was almost stifling. 
Percy turned the pea-pod bow to the wind and began 
rowing again. 

“We must try to hold our own till it clears up,” 
he observed, with attempted cheerfulness. 

But his tones lacked conviction. It might not 
clear for two or three days. By degrees his strokes 
lost their force, until the oars were barely dipping. 
The boat was going astern fast. 

Two o’clock. Long ere this Jim and Budge must 
have returned from trawling and realized that the 
pea-pod and its occupants were lost . They were prob- 
ably searching for them now, perhaps miles away on 
the other side of the island, wherever it might be. 

A gruff bark startled them. A round, black, whis- 
kered head suddenly thrust up out of the water close 
to the port gunwale. Filippo cried out in alarm, 
but Percy reassured him. 

“Only a seal!” 

Abruptly the sea grew rough. All around them 
tossed and streamed and writhed long, black aprons 
of kelp. They were passing over a sunken ledge. 
Soon it lay behind them; the kelp vanished and the 
waves grew lower. 

Three o’clock went by; then four. The afternoon 
was waning. The thick, woolly gray that surrounded 
them assumed a more somber shade. Night was 
11 159 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

coming, pitchy and starless, doubly so for the two 
lost boys, adrift on the open ocean. 

Hark! What was that? They both heard it, far 
distant, off the port bow ! Percy leaped up in excite- 
ment. 

' ‘ The shot-gun !” he cried. ‘ ‘ They’re signaling !” 

Heading the boat toward the sound, he rowed his 
hardest, while Filippo strained forward, listening. 
Ten minutes dragged by, and once again — pouf ! — 
slightly louder, and slightly to starboard. Percy 
corrected his course and again threw his whole heart 
into his rowing. 

So it went for an hour, the signals sounding at ten- 
minute intervals, each louder and nearer than the 
one before. At last Percy thought it possible that 
their voices might be heard against the wind. He 
stopped rowing. 

“Now shout, Filippo!” 

Their cries pealed out together. They were heard. 
An answering hail came back. Soon the puff-puff- 
puff of the Barracouta^s exhaust was driving rivets 
through the fog. A little later they were on board 
the sloop, answering the inquiries of Jim and Budge, 
while the empty peapod towed astern. 

“Your seamanship wasn’t bad, Perce,” was Jim’s 
judgment. “After you dropped the buoy, and then 
found you’d been rowing into the teeth of the wind, 
it might have been better to have tried only to hold 
your own until we came out to look you up. That 
breeze at first was nearer north than northeast, and 
when you ran before it you went south past the 
island. After that you were all at sea. But I might 
have done just the same thing. I can’t tell you, 
i6o 


FOG-BOUND 


though, how glad we are to see you back, even if it 
did cost next to our last shell of birdshot. The Gulf 
of Maine’s a pretty homesick place to be kicking 
round in on a foggy night.” 

‘'You aren’t any gladder than we are,” replied 
Percy. 

He glanced at the pea-pod towing astern. 

“But say, Jim! Just cast your eye over that tub. 
When it comes to catching lobsters, haven’t Filippo 
and I got the rest of the bunch beat to a frazzle?” 


XIV 


SWORDFISHING 

ALL through July the Tarpaulin Islanders had 
been troubled with dogfish. Beginning with a 
few scattering old “ground dogs,” which apparently 
live on the banks the year round, they had become 
more and more numerous as the month advanced. 
Bait was stripped from the hooks; fish on the trawl 
were devoured until only heads and backbones were 
left; and the robbers themselves were caught in 
increasing numbers. At last their depredations be- 
came unbearable. 

Jim and Percy had made a set one foggy morning 
on Medrick Shoal. When the trawl came up it was 
a sight to make angels weep. For yards at a stretch 
the hooks were bare or bitten off. Then came 
“dogs” of all sizes from “garter-dogs,” or “shoe- 
strings,” a foot long, to full-grown ten-pounders of 
about a yard. Mingled with them was an occasional 
lonesome skeleton of a haddock, cusk, or hake. 

“Look at the pirate!” said Jim. 

Grasping a ganging well above the hook, he held 
the fish up for Percy’s inspection. It was two feet 
long, of a dirty gray color, slim, shark-shaped, with 
mouth underneath. Before each of the two fins on 
its back projected a sharp horn. 

162 


SWORDFISHING 


“Think of buying perfectly good herring at Vinal* 
haven, and freighting ’em way down here to feed 
a thing like that !’ ’ mourned Jim. ‘ ‘ He’s the meanest 
thief that ever grew fins. Swims too slow to catch 
a fish that’s free; but good-by to anything that’s- 
hooked, if he’s round. He’ll gouge out a piece as 
big as a baseball at every bite. I’d hate to fall over- 
board in a school of ’em.” 

“Don’t touch him!” he warned, hastily, as Percy 
reached out an investigating hand. “He’ll stick 
those horns into you, and they’re rank poison.” 

“Aren’t dogfish good for anything?” asked Percy. 

“Not a thing! No, I’ll take that back. They 
can be groimd up for fertilizer; their livers are full 
of oil ; and their skin makes the finest kind of sand- 
paper for cleaning or polishing metal without scratch- 
ing it. They’ve been canned, too, under the name 
of grayfish; but no fisherman ’d ever eat ’em; he 
knows ’em too well.” 

Rod after rod of trawl yielded the same results. 

“I’m almost tempted to save my buoys and 
anchors, and cut all the rest away,” announced Jim 
in disgust. “I’ve known it to be done. They wear 
the line out, sawing across it. But I guess the best 
way is to save what we can and stop fishing for a 
while. Sometimes they come square-edged, like a. 
stone wall, just as they have this morning; and in 
a few days they’ll have gone somewhere else. Hope 
it ’ll be that way this time!” 

It was almost noon before the whole trawl was 
aboard. It had yielded barely two hundred pounds 
of hake. 

“Tell you what!” exclaimed Jim as he looked at 
163 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

his compass and headed the Barracouta westward 
through the fog for home, “we’ll put the trawl in 
the house for a few days, and fit up for swordfishing. 
There’s a good ground fifteen miles south of the 
island. I’ve been down there with Uncle Tom. 
If we could get some fair-sized fish, it ’d be worth our 
while to take ’em into Rockland.” 

That afternoon they mustered their swordfish 
gear. In the house were three or four of the wrecked 
coaster’s mast-hoops. One of these Jim lashed to the 
sloop’s jibstay, about waist-high above the end of 
the bowsprit. 

“That ’ll do for the pulpit!” 

Near the jaws of the gaff he nailed a little board 
seat, rigged like a bracket on a roof for shingling. 
On this the lookout could sit, his arm round the 
mast, watching for fins. 

“Now for a harpoon!” 

Across the rafters inside the house lay a hard- 
pine pole eighteen feet long, ending in a tapering 
two-foot iron. Strung on a fish-line hanging from a 
spike were a half-dozen swordfish darts. These were 
sharp, stubby metal arrows, all head and tail and 
no body, with a socket cast on one side to admit 
the top of the pole-iron. Back of the arrow-head 
was a hole, through which was fastened the buoy- 
line. 

“Righto!” exclaimed Jim. “Now when the fog 
clears we’ll be ready to do business.” 

That very night the mists scaled away before a 
brisk north wind. Morning showed the sea clear 
for miles, though a fleecy haze still blurred the 
southern and eastern horizon. 

164 


SWORDFISHING 


'‘We’ll take this chance,” decided Jim. “May 
not get a better. Remember it’s dog-days!” 

At five o’clock they started south. Before eight 
they were on the swordfish-grounds. The wind, 
blowing against the long ocean swell, raised a fairly 
heavy sea. Though the day was clear, they could 
still feel the fog in the air. 

Jim allotted the company their several stations. 

“Budge, you swarm up to that seat on the gaff 
and watch out for fins I Throppy , you steer as Budge 
tells you! Stand by to take the dory, Perce, and go 
after any fish I’m lucky enough to iron. Filippo, 
be ready to throw that buoy and coil of warp off 
the starboard bow the minute I make a strike. I’ll 
get out in the pulpit with the harpoon. Keep alive, 
everybody! We’re liable to run across something 
any minute.” 

Perched aloft. Budge scanned the tossing, glitter- 
ing sea. His keen eye detected a triangular, black 
membrane stereing leisurely through the waves a 
hundred yards ahead. 

“Fin on the starboard bow! Keep, her off, 
Throppy!” 

In a short time the Barracouta was close behind 
the unconscious fish. 

From the bowsprit end burst a shout of disgust: 

“No good ! I can see him plain ! T ail’s too limber ! 
Only a shark! Swing her off, Throppy!” 

“How can I tell a shark from a swordfish?” Budge 
called down to Jim. 

“Shark’s back fin is shorter and broader, and he 
keeps his tail-fluke whacking from side to side. 
Swordfish has two steady fins, stiff as shingles; 

165 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

front one is long and slender and curves back on a 
crook; the after one is the upper tail-fluke. Try 
again!’* 

Five minutes passed. Then an excited yell: 

‘‘Fin to port!” 

Following Budge s shouted directions, the sloop 
gave chase. Soon they were near their quarry. 

“Swordfish!” breathlessly announced Jim. “And 
a big one! Put me on top of him, Budge!” 

Leaning against the mast-hoop that encircled his 
waist, he lifted the long lance and poised it for the 
blow. The tail of the fish was almost under his 
feet when he launched the harpoon with all his 
strength. 

Unluckily, at just that moment the sloop dipped 
and met a big sea squarely. Her bowsprit dove 
under, burying Jim almost breast-deep, spoiling his 
aim. The dart struck the fish a glancing blow on 
the side of the shoulder. Off darted their frightened 
game. 

Jim gave a cry of disappointment. 

“Too bad! Ten feet, if he was an inch! Well, 
better luck next time!” 

A quarter-hour passed. Budge strained his eyes, 
but no fin ! The breeze was shifting to the northeast. 
Jim cast a practised eye about the horizon. 

“If the wind swings round much farther it ’ll bring 
the fog again. See anything. Budge?” 

“No — yes! Up to starboard! Right, Throppy! 
Keep her as she is!” 

The fish was swimming at a moderate rate, and 
the sloop had no trouble in catching up with him. 
The two stiff fins betrayed him. 

i66 



LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED HIS WAIST 
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“Swordfish all right!” muttered Jim. “Not quite 
so big as the other one, but too good to lose 1 Steady, 
Throppy!” 

Foot by foot the Barracouta's bowsprit forged up 
on their prospective prey. Nobody spoke. Jim's 
grip on the pine staff tightened; his eye measured 
the distance to the dull-blue shoulder. 

Six inches further . . . five . . . four . . . three 
. . . two . . . one . . . now! 

With all his might he drove the harpoon down- 
ward, straight for its mark. There was a tremendous 
flurry, and down went the fish, leaving a trail of 
blood. 

‘ ‘ Got him that time ! Right through the shoulder ! 
Over with that warp and barrel, Filippo!” 

The Italian obeyed, his eyes wide as saucers. Soon 
the coils of the fifty - fathom lobster - warp had 
straightened out in the wake of the terrified fugitive, 
and the red buoy danced off over the wave-crests. 

“He’s up to you, Perce!” shouted Jim. “Go after 
him! Only be sure to remember what I told you 
coming out. Keep your eye on the barrel! Haul it 
aboard as soon as you can, and coil in the warp. 
Don’t get snarled up in it if he starts running again.*” 

Percy drew the dory alongside and jumped in. 
Meanwhile the harpoon staff was dragged aboard by 
the line attached to it, the pole-iron having pulled 
out of the socket in the dart when the fish was struck. 
Jim stuck on a fresh dart, attached to another warp 
and buoy, and was ready for a second strike. 

“Pass Percy that lance, Filippo!” he ordered. 
“He may need it to keep off the sharks.” 

The Italian handed to Whittington a short, stout 
167 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

pole, on its end a two-foot iron rod, flattened to a 
point shaped like a tablespoon, and filed to razor 
sharpness. Percy set out in pursuit of the red barrel, 
now almost two hundred yards to starboard. 

“Another fin to port!” hailed Budge; and the 
Barracouta sheered off in quest of a second prize. 

For the first few minutes, though Percy rowed his 
prettiest, he could not hold his own with the moving 
barrel. Each glance over his shoulder showed that 
it was farther away. He bent stoutly to his oars. 
The sloop was heading in the opposite direction, and 
the distance between them widened rapidly. The 
wind had veered still further to the east and the fog 
hung more thickly on the horizon. 

The barrel was nearer. At last he had begun to 
gain on it. He rowed with renewed vigor. Either 
the fish was tiring out or had stopped swimming 
altogether. Presently the dory bumped against the 
keg. 

Pulling in his oars and dropping them over the 
thwarts, he sprang forward and gaffed the buoy. 
A moment later he had lifted it aboard and was pull- 
ing in the warp. 

The first ten feet came over the gunwale without 
any resistance; then he had to surge against the sag 
of a dead weight. The fish had either given up the 
ghost or was too exhausted to struggle. 

Fifty fathoms is a long distance to drag two hun- 
dred pounds. Percy’s arms began to ache before he 
had coiled in half the warp. Then he was treated to 
a surprise. 

Several feet of line jerked through his hands. The 
fish had come to life again ! 

i68 


SWORDFISHING 


Percy closed his grip on the strands, but soon let 
them slip to avoid being pulled overboard. He 
started to make the line fast, but remembered 
Spurling’s caution against the danger of tearing the 
dart out of his prey. So he tossed the barrel over 
again and began rowing after it. 

After traveling a few rods, it stopped. Once more 
he took it aboard and began coiling in the warp. 
This time the fish must surely be spent. But no! 
Thirty fathoms had crossed the gunwale when the 
rope was whisked from his hands with even more 
violence than before. 

Taken completely by surprise, Percy was wrenched 
forward. He hung for a moment over the side, 
twisted himself back in a strong effort to regain his 
balance, and incautiously planted his foot inside the 
unlaying coil. A turn whipped round his ankle, and 
he was snatched overboard, feet first. 

Before he could make a motion to free himself he 
was plowing rapidly along under water. His first 
panic passed. Unless he wished to drown, he must 
somehow clear his foot of that vise-like grip. And 
whatever he did must be done at once. 

He tried to reach his ankle, but the rate at which 
he was traveling straightened out his body, and he 
could not bend it against the water rushing by him. 
The warp leading back to the dory trailed across his 
face. He felt his way down it, hand over hand, to 
his ankle. 

There was a terrible pressure on his chest, a roaring 
in his ears; he was strangling. He could not hold 
his breath ten seconds longer. 

Bent almost double, he grasped the taut line be- 
169 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

yond his foot, first with one hand, then with both, 
and flung his whole weight suddenly on it in a des- 
perate pull. 

The strain round his ankle eased, the rope loosened. 
Kicking vigorously, he freed himself from the loop. 
Then he let go of the warp and quickly rose to the 
surface. 

Percy was a good swimmer. He cleared the water 
from his mouth and nose, paddled easily while he 
drew two or three long breaths, then raised himself 
and looked around. 

Twenty yards away the dory bobbed aimlessly, 
the rope still running at a rapid rate over its gun- 
wale. As Percy rose on a wave he caught a glimpse 
of the Barracouta more than a mile off ; engrossed in 
the chase of the second flsh, her crew had probably 
not observed his mishap. He turned his eyes back 
to the dory at the very moment that the warp ran 
out to its full length and the barrel was whirled 
overboard. 

Its red bilge flung the spray aloft as it towed 
rapidly toward him. Ten yards away it came to a 
sudden stop. The swordflsh was either dead or tak- 
ing another rest. 

It was a matter of no great difficulty for Percy to 
reach the little cask. He rested on it for a moment, 
then resumed his swim toward the boat. Presently 
he was grasping the gunwale. 

A month earlier it would have been absolutely 
impossible for him to scramble into the high-sided, 
rocking craft. As it was he had a hard fight, and he 
was all but spent when he tumbled inside and lay 
panting. 


170 


SWORDFISHING 


When he raised himself, the first thing he noticed 
was that the fog was driving nearer. The wind was 
now due east. It promised to bring the day’s fishing 
to an early end. He must retrieve the barrel and 
get the fish aboard as soon as possible or he might 
lose it altogether. 

Shipping his oars, he rowed up to the cask and took 
it in. A pull on the warp showed that the swordfish 
was motionless. Percy began hauling again, but this 
time he was very careful to keep his feet clear of 
the coil. 

A damp breath smote his cheek. He glanced 
toward the east, and saw the fog blowing over the 
water in ragged, fleecy masses. The Barracouta was 
momentarily hidden. When she reappeared, fully a 
mile distant, her crew were hoisting a black body 
aboard. While he was fighting for life they had suc- 
ceeded in capturing the second fish. The sight re- 
minded him of his duty. He resumed pulling. 

As the fathoms came in there was no sign of life 
on the other end. The fish sagged Hke lead. At last 
the long drag was over and its body floated beside 
the dor3^ 

“Deader ’n a door-nail!” muttered Percy. 

His prize was fully seven feet long. The iron had 
gone down under the shoulder and out into the 
gills, causing it to bleed freely. Its sword, which was 
an extension of the upper jaw, suggesting a duck’s 
bill, was notched and battered, where it had struck 
against rocks on the bottom. 

Following Jim’s directions, Percy fastened a bight 
of the warp securely round the tail of his prize, triced 
it up over the dory’s stem, and made the line fast 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

round a thwart. The fish was so heavy that he could 
not lift it very high, and most of its body dragged in 
the water. He began to row slowly toward the sloop. 

Thicker and thicker blew the fog. Finally it 
blotted out the Barracouta; but Percy’s last view of 
her told that she was heading his way. What if she 
could not find him! The thought gave him an un- 
pleasant chill. He rowed harder. 

A splash astern attracted his attention. A violent 
shock set the dory quivering. He started up just 
in time to see a large fish dart away, leaving the blood 
streaming from a gory wound in the head of the 
swordfish. 

A shark! Percy knew he was in for a fight. He 
seized the lance and sprang into the stem. 

A black fin shot alongside. The marauder rolled 
up for his turn at the banquet. Just as his jaws 
opened Percy drove the keen steel into his throat. 

Mad with fright and pain, the robber flashed off, 
thrashing the bloody water. Another fin appeared 
on Percy’s left. Again he lunged, and found his 
mark. The tail of the wounded shark struck the dory 
a heavy blow. Down it rolled, almost pitching the 
boy overboard head foremost among the blood- 
crazed sea-tigers. For a moment he sickened at what 
might have happened; but he regained his balance 
and hung to the lance. His fighting blood was roused. 
He had risked too much already to have the sword- 
fish tom to pieces under his very eyes. 

Knees braced tightly against the sides of the stem, 
hands locked round the stout butt of the lance, he 
foiled msh after msh of the black-finned, white- 
bellied pirates. Again and again he lunged and 
172 


t 



KNEES BRACED TIGHTLY AGAINST THE SIDES OF THE STERN, HANDS 
LOCKED ROUND THE STOUT BUTT OF THE LANCE, HE FOILED RUSH 
AFTER RUSH OF THE BLACK-FINNED, WHITE-BELLIED PIRATES 


12 



SWORDFISHING 

stabbed, until the water round the rocking boat was 
dyed crimson. 

There seemed to be no end to the sharks. Fins 
crisscrossed the water all about and cut in toward 
the swordfish in quick, savage rushes. Percy was 
becoming exhausted; his arms ached; his breath 
came short. He could not keep up the fight much 
longer. Where was the Barracoutaf 

He shouted at the top of his lungs. Unexpectedly, 
out of the fog to starboard Jim’s voice answered 
him. 

“Sharks!” yelled Percy. “This way! Quick!” 

“Fight ’em off! We’re coming!” 

In less than two minutes the sloop was alongside, 
and oars and harpoon helped beat off the assailants 
while the prize was being hoisted aboard. Though 
badly gouged and bitten about the head, the sword- 
fish was but httle impaired in value, for its body 
had hardly been touched. Another of about the 
same size lay in the standing-room. It had been a 
good morning’s work. 

Percy told his story as the Barracouta nosed home 
through the fog. When he had finished, Jim dropped 
his hand on his shoulder. 

“Perce,” said he, “you certainly put up a great 
fight and saved your fish. Nobody could have done 
any better.” 

Those few words, Percy felt, amply repaid him 
for what he had gone through that morning. He had 
won his spurs and was at last a full-fledged member 
of Spurling & Company. 


XV 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 

H alf past twelve found the Barracouta again 
at her mooring in Sprowl’s Cove. Throppy 
and Filippo were landed, with instructions to haul 
the lobster-traps the next morning if the fog would 
allow them to do it safely. Without waiting for 
dinner, Jim, Budge, and Percy started in the sloop 
for Rockland to dispose of their catch. They had 
no ice, so it was necessary to get the two swordfish 
to market as soon as possible. 

“Thicker ’n a dungeon, isn’t it?” said Jim as 
they rounded Brimstone Point and headed northwest 
into the fog. “Lucky we’ve got a good compass! 
Without it we wouldn’t stand the ghost of a show 
of getting to Rockland. We’d pile up on some ledge 
before we’d gone half-way.” 

Shaping their course carefully by the chart, and 
keeping on the alert to avoid passing vessels and 
steamers, they drove the Barracouta at top speed. 
Ten miles from Tarpaulin the increased height of 
the ocean swells told that they were crossing the 
shoal rocky ground of Snippershan. Five miles 
farther on they left behind the clanging bell on Bay 
Ledge and soon passed the red whistler south of 
Hurricane. A straight course from this brought 
174 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


them at five o’clock to the bell east of Monroe’s 
Island, and before six they were alongside the steam- 
boat wharf at Rockland. 

“Look out for her, boys!” directed Jim. “I want 
to get up-town before the markets close.” 

He landed, and started on the run for Main Street. 
In twenty-five minutes he was back. 

“Sold ’em!” he announced. “Sixty dollars!” 

A little later an express- wagon with two men drove 
down on the wharf. The swordfish were hoisted 
from the Barracouta, the agreed price paid, and the 
team hurried away. 

“Not a bad day’s work,” said Budge. 

“Fair! Now let’s go somewhere and get a good 
supper!” 

They found a restaurant on Main Street, impre- 
tentious but clean, and sat down at one of its small 
tables. Two months ago Percy would have ttuned 
up his nose at the idea of eating in such a place; 
now he looked forward to a meal there with eager 
anticipation. Jim winked at him, then scanned the 
bill of fare, and turned to Budge. 

“What ’U you have, Roger?” he asked. “I see 
they’ve some nice fish here.” 

‘ ' Fish !” almost screamed Lane. “ Not on your life ! 
I’ve eaten so much fish the last two months that 
I’m ashamed to look a hake or haddock in the face. 
None for mine! Beefsteak and onions are good 
enough for me.” 

Jim glanced at Percy. Percy nodded. 

“Three of the same,” said Jim to the waiter. 

They starved until the viands came on, then 
turned to. Fifteen minutes later the three orders 
175 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

were duplicated and despatched without undue 
delay. 

“Try it again, Budge?’* 

“I’d like to,” returned Lane, truthfully, “but I 
can’t.” 

Jim broke a five-dollar bill at the cashier’s desk, 
and they filed out. 

“Sorry Throppy and Filippo aren’t with us,” 
said Percy. 

“So am I; but we’ll even it up with ’em somehow, 
later.” 

After an evening with Sherlock Holmes at the 
movies the three went down to the Barracouta and 
turned in. The next morning the fog was not so 
thick. They started at sunrise, and reached the 
island before eleven o’clock. At noon Stevens and 
the Italian came in with a good catch of lobsters. 

And now came some of the most enjoyable weeks 
of the summer. The five boys were thoroughly 
acquainted and on the best of terms. Their work 
had been reduced to a frictionless routine that left 
them more leisure than at first. Lane was treasurer 
and bookkeeper for the concern, and his reports, 
made every Saturday night, showed that returns, 
both from the fish and from the lobsters, were running 
ahead of their estimates at the beginning of the 
season. 

Percy, in particular, was learning to enjoy the free, 
out-of-door life, so different from anything to which 
he had been accustomed. At the close of pleasant 
afternoons, when a land breeze had driven the fog 
to sea and the work of the day was finished, he liked 
to take his Caesar or Virgil up to the beacon on 
176 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


Brimstone, and lie at ease on the cushion of wiry 
grass, while he followed the great general through 
his Gallic campaigns or traced the wanderings of 
^pious iEneas over a sea that could have been no 
bluer or more sparkling than that which surrounded 
the island. Sometimes it pleased him to explore 
the sheep-paths through the scrubby evergreens with 
gray wool-tags clinging to the branch ends, and to 
emerge at last from the tangle of dwarfed, twisted 
trunks on the northeast point. There he would 
throw himself at full length on the summit of the 
bluff, with the surf in his ears and the cool, salt 
breeze on his face, and watch the sun flashing from 
the brown glass toggles near the white lobster- 
buoys ; or, lifting his gaze to the horizon beyond the 
purple deep, he would trace the low, rolling humps 
of the mainland hills, the cleft range of Isle au Haut, 
or the heights of Mount Desert. But no studies or 
scenery caused him to forget his daily trip with 
sweater and rockweed. 

The glades on the southern edge of the woods were 
overgrown with raspberry-bushes. When Filippo’s 
daily stint about the camp was finished, he visited 
these spots with his pail; and while the season 
lasted, heaping bowls of red, dead-ripe fruit or 
saucers of sweet preserve varied their customary 
fare. There were blueberries, too, in abundance, 
and these also made a welcome addition to their 
table. 

“Boys,” said Lane, one morning, “I’m meat 
hungry. I can still taste that beefsteak we got the 
other night at Rockland. Think of the ton or so 
of mutton chops running loose on top of this island, 
177 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

while we poor Crusoes are starving to death on the 
beach!’* 

“No need of waiting until you’re in the last 
stages, Budge,” observed Jim. “Uncle Tom told 
me we could have a lamb whenever we wanted one. 
All we’ve got to do is to kill it.” 

A silence settled over the camp. The boys looked 
at one another. Nobody hankered for the job. 

“Budge spoke first,” suggested Throppy. 

“I’m no butcher,” returned Lane. “Come to 
think of it, I don’t care much for lamb, after all.” 

“Now see here!” said Jim. “What’s the use of 
beating round the bush? We’re all crazy for fresh 
meat. The only thing to do is to draw lots to see 
who’ll sacrifice his feelings and do the shooting. 
We’ll settle that now.” 

He cut four toothpicks into tmeven lengths. 

“Filippo’s not in this.” 

He had noticed that the Italian’s olive face had 
grown pale. 

“Now come up and draw like men!” 

The lot fell to Lane. 

“You’re it. Budge! Don’t be a quitter! There’s 
the gun and here’s our last shell. Don’t miss!” 

Lane’s lips tightened. But he took the gun, put 
in the shell, and started up over the bank. 

“Don’t follow me,” he fiung back. “I’ll do this 
alone.” 

Five minutes of silence followed. Then — hang! 

“He’s done it!” exclaimed Throppy. 

The boys felt unhappy. In a few minutes Lane 
came crunching down the gravel slope. His face 
was sober. 


178 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


“Where’s the lamb?” asked Jim. 

“Up there! I didn’t agree to bring it down.” 

“Come on, boys!” 

Jim, Percy, and Stevens went up to the pasture; 
Lane remained in the cabin. A careful search failed 
to reveal the victim. Jim walked to the edge of the 
bank. 

“Oh, Budge!” he caUed. 

Lane came out of the camp. 

“Where’s that lamb?” 

Don’t know ! Rimning around up there, I s’pose !” 

“Didn’t you shoot him?” 

“No! I couldn’t. And I know none of the rest of 
you could, either. So I fired in the air.” 

Jim’s laugh spoke his relief. 

“Well, I guess that’s the easiest way out of it for 
everybody. Next trip to Matinicus I’ll order a hind 
quarter from Rockland. It ’ll mean a little more 
wear and tear on the company’s pocketbook, but a 
good deal less on our feelings.” 

One of the accompaniments of the heat and fog of 
those August days was a kind of salt-water mirage. 
Ships and steamers miles away below the horizon 
were lifted into plain view. Low, distant islands 
rose to perpendicular bluffs, distorted by the waver- 
ing air-currents; other islands appeared directly 
above the first, and came down to join them. Percy 
watched these novel moving pictures with great in- 
terest. 

Every few mornings either the trawl or the lob- 
ster-traps would yield something unusual. Now it 
might be a dozen bream, called by the fishermen 
“brim,” “redfish,” or “all-eyes”; again up would 
179 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

come a catfish, savage and sharp-toothed, able to 
dent an ash oar; and rarely a small halibut would 
appear, drowned on the trawl. Sometimes the lob- 
stermen would capture a monkfish, whose undiscrim- 
inating appetite had led him to try to swallow a 
glass float; or a trap would come to the surface 
freighted with huge five-fingers or containing a short, 
ribbon-shaped eel, blood-red from nose to tail- tip. 

Spurling & Company were dressing a big catch of 
hake on the Barracouta early one afternoon when a 
rockety report resounded close to the island. Percy, 
who was wielding his splitting-knife with good effect, 
as his oilskins showed, glanced up quickly. 

“That’s a yacht’s gun!” 

Sixty seconds revealed that he was right. Into the 
mouth of the cove shot a keen-pro wed steam-yacht, 
resplendent with brass fittings and fresh, white 
paint. Five or six fianneled figures lounged aft, while 
a few members of her crew, natty in white duck, 
dropped anchor under the direction of an officer. 
Side-steps were lowered and an immaculate toy boat 
swung out; a sailor occupied the rowing-thwart, 
while one of the yachtsmen stepped into the stem 
and took the rudder-lines. The boat sped straight 
toward the Barracouta^ which grew dingy and mean 
by contrast. 

Presently the strangers were near. The yachts- 
man touched his cap. He was a good-looking fellow 
of perhaps nineteen, with a light, fuzzy mustache 
and eyes that were a trifle shifty. 

“Would you be so kind as to tell me — ” 

He broke off abmptly as he recognized Percy. 

“By the Great Horn Spoon!” he almost shouted, 
i8o 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


“if it isn’t P. Whittington! Percy, old man, what 
do you mean by hiding yourself away offshore in a 
lonesome spot like this? Come aboard! Come 
aboard! The old crowd’s there — Ben Brimmer and 
Martin Sayles and Mordaunt and Mack and Barden. 
I’ve chartered the Arethusay and invited ’em to spend 
a month with me along the New England coast. 
We’re not having a time of it — oh no ! or my name 
isn’t Chauncey Pike!” 

His eyes dwelt curiously on the details of Percy’s 
costume and occupation. 

“What you masquerading for? Hiding from the 
sheriff?” 

Percy met his gaze evenly. His estimate of men 
and the things that make life worth Hving had under- 
gone a material change during the last two months. 
Pike’s jesting flowed oflE him like water off a duck. 
He introduced the other members of Spurling & 
Company, and Pike greeted them cordially. 

“I want you all to take dinner on board with us 
to-night. We’ve got a first-class chef, and I’ll have 
him do his prettiest. ’Tisn’t every day you run 
across an old friend.” 

Jim was inclined to demur, but Pike would not 
take no for an answer, and he finally gave in when 
Percy added his entreaties to those of the yachtsman. 

“Signal the yacht when you’re through, Perce,” 
said the latter as he rowed away, “and I’ll send 
ashore for you. I know your friends here will excuse 
you for a while if you come aboard and talk over 
old times with us.” 

“Better let me set you ashore now,” said Jim, 
“so you can wash up and change your clothes.” 

i8i 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Not much!’* refused Percy. “I’ll see every fish 
salted first.” 

He was as good as his word. Not until the last 
hake lay on the top of its brethren in the hogshead 
did he take off his oilskins and prepare for his visit 
to the yacht. At his signal the boat rowed in and 
took him aboard. He received an uproarious greet- 
ing from his former friends. The first welcome over, 
he came in for more or less chaffing. 

“Boys,” jeered Pike, “what do you suppose I 
found this modest, salt-water violet — or barnacle, I 
should say — doing? Actually dressed in oil-clothes 
and cleaning fish ! Think of it ! P. Whittington, the 
one and only! Wouldn’t his friends along Fifth 
Avenue like to see him in that rig ! Honest, Perce, if 
I wanted to btuy myself, I’d pick a cemetery where 
the occupants didn’t have to perform so much bone 
labor. I’d rather face the firing-squad than do what 
you were doing this afternoon.” 

“Guess you’re telling the truth. Chauncey,” re- 
torted Percy. 

“Come down below and let’s have a drink all 
round!” 

“Not unless it’s Poland water,” said Percy, 
firmly. “The one drawback about this island is that 
the only spring’s brackish. If you’ve any good bot- 
tled water I’ll be glad to drink with you, but nothing 
stronger.” 

“Just listen to that, fellows! Well, have your own 
way, Perce! We’ve a dozen carboys of spring water 
aboard, and you can drink ’em all if you want to. 
Try these cigarettes!” 

“Swore off over a month ago.” 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


* ‘ No ! Shouldn’t think you’d find life worth living. 
What do you have for amusement?” 

“We’re too busy to need any,” replied Percy, 
truthfully. 

Pike looked serious. Removing Percy’s cap, he 
tapped his head with the tips of his fingers. 

“There’s some trouble inside,” he said at last, 
“but I can’t quite make out what it is. I think we’U 
have to take him up to the city to consult some 
prominent alienist, as the newspapers would say. 
But first he’s going east in the Arethusa with Doctor 
Pike. Come on, Perce! Put off the sackcloth and 
ashes, or rather the oilskins and fish-scales, and travel 
with us for a while. We’re aU artists aboard, but 
we paint in only one color, and that’s a deep, rich 
red ! We’re going to spread it over Castine and Bar 
Harbor and Campobello, and we want your esteemed 
assistance. Do we have it?” 

Percy shook his head. 

“You do not,” he declined. “I’m booked for 
college in the faU, and I’m studying to make up my 
conditions.” 

Pike looked sadly round at the others. 

“And so young!” he lamented. “I presume your 
friends ashore share yoiu- sentiments, and we’ll have 
to take ’em into consideration in planning for that 
dinner to-night. Wouldn’t have any scruples, would 
you, about beginning with a clear soup, then tackling 
a juicy beef roast with all the fixings, and winding 
up with lemon pie and ice-cream?” 

“Lead me to it,” grinned Percy. “Well, fellows, 
I’m mighty glad to see you, even if we don’t agree 
on all points. Now I’ve an engagement ashore for 
183 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

a half-hour or so, and if you’ll set me on the beach 
I’ll come aboard with the others.” 

Curious eyes followed him as he climbed the bluff 
with his sweater and plunged into the woods. At 
six he rowed out with the rest of the Spiirlingites, 
Filippo included. The dinner to which they sat down 
was one they remembered for the rest of the season. 
Pike had not overpraised his French chef. Everybody 
had a good time, and at the close of the meal a toast 
was drunk — ^in spring water — to the continued suc- 
cess of SpurHng & Company. The boys went ashore 
early. 

No trawling was done the next morning, as it was 
the regular day for the trip to Matinicus. The 
Barracouta started at nine o’clock. At about the 
same time the yacht catted her anchor, fired a fare- 
well gun, and proceeded eastward, her passengers 
first lining up and giving three cheers for their guests 
of the night before, and receiving a similar salute in 
return. 

“Perce,” said Jim as the sloop rose and sank on 
the swells on her way over to Seal Island, “if you 
won’t think me impertinent, I’d like to ask you a 
question.” 

“Fire ahead!” 

“You can teU me or not, just as you please, but 
I’ve been wondering since last night whether, right 
down at the bottom of your heart, you’d rather be 
with your friends on the yacht or with us on the 
island.” 

“That’s an easy one, Jim,” replied Percy. “And 
the best answer I can make is the fact I’m on the 
boat with you this minute. I had an invitation to 
184 


MIDSUMMER DAYS 


go with them, and I declined it. Things look differ- 
ent to me from what they did two months ago.” 

At Matinicus Percy fotmd a letter from his father, 
answering his epistle of a few weeks before. 

Dear Percy [it ran], — Glad to hear you’re on the job. Keep 
it up. 

Percy countered that night as follows: 

Dear Dad, — P m still sticking. 


XVI 


A LOST ALUMNUS 

T HROPPY stepped out of the fish-house at the 
close of a breezy afternoon and started for the 
camp to wash up. The morning’s catch had been 
split and salted; it just filled a hogshead. He 
glanced seaward at the white-capped squalls chasing 
one another over the broad blue surface. Three steps 
from the building he halted in surprise. 

“Hulloo! Who’s that?” 

Round the eastern point came a small sloop. 
Evidently she had met with disaster, for the end of 
her boom was broken and dragging and her mainsail 
hung loosely. It was easily apparent that she had 
made a safe harbor none too early. 

Attracted by Throppy’s exclamation, the other 
boys joined him, and together they watched the 
strange craft limp into the cove. As she came nearer 
they could see that she was old and dilapidated. Her 
brown canvas was frayed and rotten; tag-ends of 
rope hung here and there; and her battered sides 
were badly in need of a coat of fresh paint. 

“Built in the year one!” was Jim’s verdict. “Al- 
most too old to be knocking round so far offshore!” 

Gliding slowly into the cove, she lost headway 
not far from the Barracouta. A small black dog began 

I86 


A LOST ALUMNUS 


to run to and fro on board and bark excitedly. The 
man at the helm, evidently her only crew, hurried, 
stiffly forward, let the jib and mainsail run down^ 


\ 



and dropped the anchor. Then the boys were treated 
to a fresh surprise. 

A shaggy white cat leaped from the standing- 
room upon the roof of the cabin. A Maltese followed 
her. Then another, jet black, sprang into view. The 
three rubbed about the legs of the man as he made 
his cable fast. Nemo, roused from his nap under 
the stove, ran down to the water’s edge and began 
13 187 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

an interchange of ferocious greetings with the strange 
canine; while the cats, lining up in a row on the side, 
arched their backs and spit fiercely. 

The boys viewed this menagerie with amazement. 

"‘Bamum & Bailey’s come to town!” muttered 
' Budge. 

His craft safely moored, the man drew in a small 
punt which was towing astern and stepped into it. 
The dog followed. 

‘‘Back, Oliver 1” ordered his master. 

Grasping the animal by the scruff of the neck, he 
tossed him into the standing-room. Then he slowly 
sculled the punt to the beach. Jim walked down to 
meet him. 

The stranger was of medium height, and appar- 
ently over sixty years old. His beard and mustache 
were gray. He wore a black slouch-hat and a Prince 
Albert coat, threadbare and shiny, but neatly 
brushed. He stepped briskly ashore, with shoulders 
well set back. His dark eyes carried a suggestion of 
melancholy, and his face was deeply Hned. 

“I’ve dropped in to make repairs,” said he. 
“Broke my main boom in a squall about a mile north 
of the island, and thought I might get some one here 
to help me fix it.” 

“You did right to come,” retimied Jim. “We’ll 
be glad to do anything we can, Mr. — ” 

“Thorpe,” supplied the other. “That isn’t my 
name, but it ’ll do as well as any.” 

“Mine’s Spurling,” said Jim. 

They shook hands and walked up to the camp. 
There Jim introduced the newcomer to the other 
boys. Supper was about to be put on the table and 

i88 


A LOST ALUMNUS 


the stranger was invited to share it. He accepted, 
and ate heartily, almost ravenously. 

“Seems good to taste somebody’s cooking besides 
your own, ’ ’ he apologized. ‘ ' When you’ve summered 
and wintered yourself, year in and year out, the 
thing gets pretty monotonous and you almost hate 
the sight of food.” 

“Then you’re alone most of the time?” ventured 
Lane. 

“Not most of the time, but all the time.” 

The boys would have liked to inquire further, but 
courtesy forbade, and their guest did not volunteer 
anything more regarding himself. He shifted the 
conversation to Nemo. 

“Bright-looking dog you’ve got there!” he com- 
mented. 

“Yes,” said Jim. “And he’s 'fully as bright 
as he looks. I see you’ve a dog and some cats 
aboard.” 

“Yes; and they’re good company — better, m some 
ways, than human beings, for they can’t talk back. 
The dog’s 01i\rer Cromwell; and the cats I’ve named 
Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Victoria. 
I must go aboard and give ’em their suppers.” 

He rose from the table. 

“Come back again in an hour,” invited Jim, “and 
we’ll have some music. We’ve a violin here.” 

“I’ll be more than glad to come,” returned their 
guest. “Music’s something I don’t have a chance to 
hear very often.” 

Walking down the beach, he sculled out to his 
sloop. His animals greeted him, Oliver Cromwell 
vociferously, the cats with a more reserved welcome. 

189 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

"“What d’you make of him?” asked Percy. ‘‘Odd 
stick, isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” said Jim, meditatively, “but he seems like 
a gentleman. What I can’t understand is why he’s 
cruising along the coast alone in that old Noah’s 
ark. It doesn’t seem natural. Besides, it’s dangerous 
business for a man of his age. Well, it’s no concern 
of ours. Let’s give him a pleasant evening.” 

Promptly at the end of the allotted hour the 
stranger came ashore again. 

“Got the children all in bed for the night,” said he. 
“Now I can make you a little visit with a clear 
conscience.” 

He spoke faster and more cheerfully than he had 
done before. The melancholy in his bearing had 
vanished. Jim thought he detected a slight odor of 
liquor about him, but he could not be sure. They all 
sat down together, and Throppy brought out his violin. 

“What shall it be, boys?” he asked, after a pre- 
liminary tuning up. 

“Give us ‘The Wearing of the Green,’ ” suggested 
Lane. 

Soon the wailing strains of the familiar Irish 
melody were breathing through the cabin. “Kath- 
leen Mavoumeen” followed, and the stranger sat 
as if fascinated. At “ ’ Way Down Upon the Suwanee 
River” he dropped his head in his hands and his 
shoulders shook 

“Something livelier, Throppy,” said Jim. 

Stevens started in on “Dixie.” As the first 
spirited notes came dancing off the violin their guest 
raised his head quickly, and before the selection was 
finished his cheerfulness had returned. 

190 


A LOST ALUMNUS 

“Can you play ‘The Campbells Are Coming’?’" 
he inquired. 

As Stevens responded with the stirring Scotch air 
Thorpe rose to his feet and began whistling a clear, 
melodious accompaniment. The notes trilled out, 
pure and bird-like. The boys broke into hearty 
applause when he finished. Their approval em- 
boldened him to ask a favor. 

“I used to play a little myself,” he said; “but it’s 
been years since I’ve had a bow in my hand. Would 
you be willing for me to see if I can recall anything? 
I’ll be careful of your instrument.” 

“Sure!” cordially returned Stevens. 

He handed violin and bow to Thorpe. The latter 
took them almost reverently. Tucking the violin 
under his chin, he drew the bow back and forth, 
at first with a lingering, uncertain touch, but 
soon with an increasing firmness and accuracy 
that bespoke an old-time skill. Gradually he gath- 
ered confidence, and a bubbling flood of liquid music 
gushed from the vibrating strings. 

At first he played a medley of fragments, short 
snatches from old tunes, each shading imperceptibly 
into the one that followed, blending into a whole 
that chorded with the night and sea and wind and 
the driftwood fire crackling in the little stove in 
the lonely island cabin. The boys sat motionless, 
listening, brooding over the visions the music opened 
to each. They had never heard such music before. 
Even Percy had to acknowledge that, as he leaned 
breathlessly forward, eyes glued to the dancing 
bow. 

One final, long, slow sweep, and the last notes 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

died away, mellow and silvery as a distant bell. 
The musician raised his bowed head and looked 
about. 

'‘More!’* begged the boys. 

With a nod of assent, he began “Annie Laurie.’’ 
His audience sat spellbound. “Flow Gently, Sweet 
Afton” followed; and he closed with “Auld Lang 
Syne.” Then he laid the violin carefully on the table 
and burst into tears. 

For two or three minutes nobody spoke. Filippo 
was weeping silently; Percy cleared his throat; 
and even the other three were conscious of a slight 
huskiness. The evening was tiiming out differently 
from what they had anticipated. 

Brushing away his tears, the stranger controlled 
himself with a strong effort. 

“I don’t know what you’ll think of me, boys,” 
said he, shamefacedly. “I’m sorry to have made such 
an exhibition of myself. But music always did affect 
me; besides, it’s wakened some old memories. 
Guess I’d better be going now.” 

He half rose. 

“Stay awhile longer,” urged Jim; and the others 
seconded the invitation. 

Thorpe sank back on his box. 

“You won’t have to persuade me very hard. 
Evenings alone on the Helen are pretty long.” 

His eye fell on Percy’s AEneid on the shelf beside 
the window. 

‘ ‘ Aha ! Who’s reading Virgil ? ’ * 

“I am,” confessed Percy. “Making up college 
conditions.” 

The stranger looked at him keenly. 

192 


A LOST ALUMNUS 


“Conditions, eh? Guess you don’t need to have 
any, imless you want ’em.” 

“Found you at home there, Perce!” laughed 
Lane. 

“I don’t propose to have any more after this 
summer,” averred Percy, stoutly. 

“Stick to that!” encouraged Thorpe. “There’s 
enough have ’em that can’t help it.” 

Taking down the volume, he opened it at the be- 
ginning of the first book, and began reading aloud, 
dividing the lines into feet : 

Anna virumque cano^ Trojae qui primus ab oris 
Itdiam, fato profuguSy Laviniaque venii. 

“Wouldn’t want to say how long it’s been since I 
last set eyes on that. Probably you boys notice 
that I use the English pronunciation of Latin in- 
stead of the continental; it’s what I had when I 
was in college.” 

“What was your college?” inquired Percy. 

Melancholy darkened Thorpe’s face again. 

“Never mind about that,” he replied, a little 
brusquely. 

Glancing round the cabin, he caught sight of 
Throppy’s wireless outfit; soon the two were en- 
gaged in an interested discussion on wave-lengths 
and the effect of atmospheric disturbances. Later 
he was talking over the lobster law with Jim, and 
life-insurance with Lane. He seemed to be equally 
at home on all subjects. 

Eight o’clock came before they realized it. The 
stranger’s face suddenly grew somber. 

“Boys,” said he, “I must be going now. You’ve 
193 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

given me a mighty pleasant evening and I sha’n’t 
forget it right away. You’ll think it a strange 
thing for me to say, but the best return I can make 
for yom* kindness is to tell you something about 
myself.” 

He glanced at Percy. 

“You asked me what my college was. I*m not 
going to answer that question, but I’ll say this: 
At the end of its catalogue of graduates you’ll find 
a page headed ‘Lost Alumni,’ and my name — my real 
name — ^is there. It’s a list of those whose addresses 
are unknown to the college authorities, men who 
have dropped out, gone back, disappeared. No- 
body knows what’s become of ’em, and by and by 
nobody cares. That’s just what I am — a lost alum- 
nus ! And it’s better for me to stay lost !” 

With trembling hands he picked up a worm-eaten 
stick beside the stove. 

“I’m like this stick now — only driftwood! Once 
I was young and sound and strong as any one of 
you — ^just as this wood was once. Now — ” 

Lifting the stove cover, he flung the stick into the 
fire; a burst of sparks shot up. 

“That’s all it’s fit for; and it’s all I’m fit for, too! 
Name . . . character . . . friends . . . home . . . aU 
gone — all gone!” 

He took a step toward the door, then halted. 

“I’ve told you this because it may do some one 
of you some good while there’s time. Don’t throw 
your lives away, as I’ve thrown away mine!” 

The sober, startled faces of his hearers apparently 
recalled him to himself. 

“Sorry I spoke so freely,” he apologized. “Forget 

194 


A LOST ALUMNUS 


it, boys, and forget me! Everybody else has. 
Good night!” 

He opened the door. 

“Won’t you stop ashore with us?” invited Spur- 
ling. “We can fix you up a bunk.” 

“No; I must go aboard. My dog and cats would 
be lonesome; wouldn’t sleep a wink without me. 
They’re mighty knowing animals.” 

He went out and closed the door. The boys looked 
at one another. Lane was the first to speak. 

“What d’you suppose was the matter with him? 
Must have been something pretty bad to make 
him feel that way. But, say! Didn’t he make 
that violin talk? Never heard anything like it 
before!” 

That night the boys went to bed feeling unusually 
serious. Percy, in particular, did not get to sleep 
until late. The stranger’s remarks had given him 
much food for thought. 

The next morning, before sunrise, the barking of 
Oliver Cromwell and a thin, blue smoke curling 
from the stovepipe of the Helen told that the lost 
alumnus was preparing breakfast. Jim and Percy 
had started off with their trawls some time before. 
Stevens volunteered to help their visitor repair his 
boom, so Filippo went out with Lane to haul the 
lobster- traps. 

All the boys were back at noon, when Thorpe, 
repairs made, waved farewell and sailed slowly out 
of the cove, dog and cats manning the side of the 
Helen, as if for a last salute. Throppy told of his 
morning’s work. 

“Tried to pay me for what I did; but of course 
195 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

I wouldn’t take anything. You might not think it, 
but, inside, that old boat is as neat as wax. Got a 
good library on board, too; books there that were 
beyond me. All the current magazines. Easy to 
see how he keeps up to date about everything.” 

At two o’clock that afternoon in popped the 
Calista in quest of lobsters. The boys told her cap- 
tain about their strange caller. Higgins laughed 
shortly. 

“What — old Thorpe! Oh yes, I’ve known of him 
these twenty years ! Mystery ? Not so much as you 
might think. It’s the same mystery that’s ruined 
a lot of other men — John Barleycorn ! Thorpe 
showed up from nobody knows where about a quar- 
ter of a century ago; and ever since then he’s been 
banging up and down the coast in that old boat. 
They say he’s a college graduate gone to the bad 
from drink.” 

“What supports him?” asked Lane. “Does he 
fish?” 

“Not more than enough to supply himself and 
his live stock. I’ve heard he’s got wealthy relatives 
who furnish him with all the money he needs. He 
likes to live in this style, and they like to have him. 
He’s out of their way, and they’re out of his. In 
the winter he ties the sloop up in some harbor and 
stops aboard.” 

“He seemed to be sober enough last night,” said 
Jim. 

“Yes; when he’s all right you couldn’t ask for a 
man to be more peaceable or gentlemanly; but when 
he’s in liquor, look out ! I passed him a month ago 
one squally day off Monhegan, running before the 
196 


A LOST ALUMNUS 


wind, sheet fast, shot to the eyes, and yelling like a 
wild man. It’s a dangerous trick to make that sheet 
fast on a squally day, or on any day at all, for that 
matter. Some time he’ll do it once too often. Well, 
as the saying goes, 'When rum’s in, wit’s out!’ How’s 
lobsters?” 


XVII 


BLOWN OFF 

AT two o’clock on a Friday morning toward 
the end of August SpurHng and Whittington 
started with six tubs of trawl, baited with ^alted 
herring, for Clay Bank. Long before sunrise the last 
fathom of ground-Hne had gone overb^^ard and the 
tubs were empty. I 

Swinging the Barracouta about, they retraced their 
course to the first buoy. 

A long, oily ocean swell, heaving in from the south, 
undulated the breezeless sea. The air was mild, 
almost suspiciously so. Dawn was breaking redly 
as they reached their starting-point and prepared to 
pull in the trawl. 

“I’ll haul the first half, Perce,” volunteered Spur- 
ling. 

Drawing the dory alongside, he cast off her painter 
and sprang aboard. Before taking in the buoy he 
stood for a half-minute, scanning sky and sea. 

‘ ‘ Almost too fine ! ” he remarked . “I don ’ t like that 
crimsQn east. You remember how the rhyme goes : 

“A red sky in the morning. 

Sailors take warning. 

Looks to me like a weather-breeder. Those swells 
remind me of a lazy, good-natured, purring tiger. 

198 


BLOWN OFF 


You wouldn’t think they’d swamp a toy boat; but 
let the wind blow over ’em a few hours and it’s an 
entirely different matter. Still, I don’t think we’ll 
see any really bad weather before midnight at the 
earliest. Guess we’d better plan not to set to-mor- 
row.” 

He was soon unhooking hake and coiling the trawl 
into its tub. Percy kept the Barracouta close by. 
At the middle buoy he relieved Spirrling in the dory. 
The set yielded over two thousand pounds of fish, 
principally good-sized hake. 

‘ ‘Very fair morning’s work, ’ ’ said Spurling. ‘ ‘ We’U 
leave that last load in the dory. Now for home!” 

Soon the sloop was heading for Tarpaulin, the 
weighted dory towing behind. They were almost up 
to Brimstone Point when, with a final explosion, the 
engine stopped. Spurling gave an exclamation of 
mingled disgust and relief. 

“Something’s broken! Well, we’re lucky it didn’t 
give way five milesH)ack. It ’d have been a tough 
job to warp her in so^r, with a white-ash breeze. 
Cast off that dory, Perce!” 

As Percy pulled the smaller craft alongside the 
distant quick-fire of an approaching engine fell upon 
his ears. He glanced quickly toward the northeast. 

“No blisters' for us this morning!” he shouted. 
“Here comes Captain Ben in the Calista! He’ll tow 
us in.” 

Presently the lobster-smack was alongside, and 
soon the Calista, with sloop and dory in tow, was 
heading for Sprowl’s Cove. Jim and Percy had left 
their boat and come on board the smack. They 
noticed that Higgins seemed unusually serious. 

199 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“What’s the matter, Cap?” inquired Spurling. 
“Any trouble with lobsters?” 

“No,” replied the captain, soberly, “there’s no 
trouble with lobsters, so far as I know. Haven’t met 
with any losses to speak of, and I’m paying twenty- 
five cents a pound. But something’s happened to a 
friend of yours. Remember that stranger who made 
you a call a couple of weeks ago?” 

“Sure! What about him?” 

“Well, coming across from Swan’s Island yesterday 
afternoon, I nearly ran over a boat, bottom up, close 
to Griffin Ledge. I managed to spell out the name on 
her stem; it was the old Helen. Thorpe had made 
his sheet fast once too often, as I’ve always said he 
woffid. So he’s gone, dog, cats, and the whole 
shooting-match. I cruised about for a while to see 
if I could find anything, but it wasn’t any use; the 
tide runs over those ledges like a river. The old 
fellow had a good streak in him, and I’m all-fired 
sorry he had to go that way. It only shows what 
rum can do for a man, if you give it a fair chance.” 

The tragic news had a sobering effect upon the 
boys. Percy, in particular, remembering the habits 
of certain of his friends, took the story to heart. 
Nobody said anything more until they were inside 
the cove and running toward the lobster-car. Budge 
and Throppy saw them coming and rowed out in 
the pea-pod. 

While the lobsters were being dipped aboard the 
smack and weighed, Spurling tinkered the Barra- 
couta's engine. At last he discovered the cause of 
the breakdown. 

‘ ‘ Broken piston-rod !” he exclaimed. ‘ ‘ That means 
200 


BLOWN OFF 


a trip to Matinicus. And we’ve got to go right 
away, so we can get back before night ahead of the 
storm that’s coming. We must fix that engine, or we 
may lose two or three days’ good fishing, after the 
sea smooths down. Perce, you and I’ll go in the dory. 
You other fellows ’ll have to dress those hake alone 
this time.” 

“I’ll tow you across, Jimmy,” offered Higgins. 
“But it looks a bit smurry to me. I think there may 
be a norther coming; and you wouldn’t want to get 
caught out in that. Remember what happened to 
Bill Carlin!” 

“I know,” answered Spurling. “But that engine’s 
no good without a piston-rod. I was bom in a dory. 
Besides, if it should blow too hard, we can stop on 
Wooden BaU or Seal Island.” 

A few minutes later the Calista, with Jim and Percy 
aboard and the dory in tow, was moving away from 
TarpauHn. An easy run of two hours brought them 
to Matinicus. Higgins dropped his anchor in the 
outer harbor near Wheaton’s Island, and the boys 
rowed ashore in their dory, landing in the head of 
the Httle cove near the fish-wharf. 

Percy made a few necessary purchases at the store 
while Jim attended to the piston-rod. A half-hour 
later they were pushing off the dory, ready for their 
long row back. The sky was hazy and the sea calm. 
In the outer harbor Captain Ben hailed them from 
the Calista. 

“Be good to yourselves, boys, and don’t risk too 
much. You won’t have any trouble getting to Seal 
Island; if it looks bad, you’d better hang up there 
with Pliny Ferguson. He’ll be glad of company at 
201 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

his shack for the next two days; for, unless I’m ’way 
off, there won’t be many trawls set or traps pulled 
until next Monday. I’m going to stick to Matinicus 
till the blow is over.” 

It was still calm when they passed the Black 
Ledges and headed for the northeast point of Wooden 
Ball. Jim was rowing, and the dory drove easily 
onward under his powerful strokes. 

Percy looked north. The mountains on the main- 
land had vanished, and even the heights on Vinal- 
haven were being blotted out; but as yet not a 
breath of air disturbed the glassy, undulating sea. 

They were now only a few hundred feet north of 
the ledges on the extremity of the Ball. The swell 
was breaking white against its barnacled granite 
boulders in a long, crashing rumble. 

“Let me spell you at the oars, Jim,” said Percy. 

‘ ‘ Don’t care if you do ! And pass that bag of hard 
bread forward! I feel hungry enough to eat the 
whole of it. Wonder what Fihppo ’U have for supper 
to-night!” 

The boys had been in such a hurry to get away 
from Matinicus that they had not taken time for 
any dinner; so both had keen appetites. Jim made 
a hearty lunch on the crisp crackers. Percy’s mouth 
watered as he swung to and fro at the oars, facing 
his companion. Ten weeks ago he would have dis- 
dained such plain fare ; but now he could eat it with 
a relish. His gristle was hardening into bone. 

Four or five of the brittle disks satisfied Jim’s 
hunger. 

“Your turn now. Perce! Let me take her again!” 

“Hadn’t I better row a little longer?” 

202 


BLOWN OFF 


“No! I feel good for five miles. Those crackers 
put the strength into a man.” 

Percy attacked the bag with an appetite equal to 
Jim’s. Malcolm’s Ledges were near, breaking white 
half-way from the Ball to Seal Island. To Percy’s 
ears the roar of the surf sounded louder. 

“Sea’s making up a bit, isn’t it, Jim?” 

“Yes; but I don’t think it ’ll amount to any- 
thing for a long time yet.” 

Down swept a squall from the north, roughening 
and darkening the water. The dory careened a trifle 
as it smote her side. 

“Well, Perce, we’re more than a third of the way 
home. There’s Brimstone Point, eight miles ahead. 
We may see a little rough water before we get there. 
Lucky you’re not seasick nowadays!” 

The squaU passed, but left a steady breeze blowing 
in its wake. The sky was gray, the sea leaden. The 
horizon aU around seemed to be contracting, and 
the familiar islands were losing their height. 

They ran to leeward of the breaker on Gully Ledge, 
and passed into smooth water under the protecting 
barrier of Seal Island. Pliny Ferguson’s shack was in 
plain view, and its owner came out and swung his 
hand to them. Spurling remembered Captain Hig- 
gins’s advice, and hesitated. 

“What do you say, Perce? I’ll put it up to you. 
Shall we keep on or stop here with Pliny ? Seems to 
me there isn’t the least doubt about our reaching 
the island before dark; but I don’t want to make 
you run any needless risk. So I’ll do as you say. 
Pliny ’ll be glad to make us comfortable, and we can 
slip across after the gale is over.” 

14 203 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Percy scanned the steep, desolate cliffs a half- 
mile to the north. 

“What would you do if you were alone, Jim?” 

“Make for Tarpaulin as fast as oars would take 
me. 

“Then I say keep on!” 

“Keep on it is, then,” assented Spurling. 

Shielded from the wind by the high shore, the dory 
sped on east by south. The island was over a mile 
long. When they emerged from the protection of the 
ledges on its eastern end they could see that the 
breeze had increased in force. Up to windward 
in the direction of Isle au Haut Bay occasional 
white-caps were breaking. 

Spurling stopped rowing and took a long look 
around. Then he pulled off his sweater, settled him- 
self firmly on the thwart, and braced his heels against 
the timber nailed across the bottom of the dory. 
His oar-blades caught the water with a long, steady 
stroke. 

“We’ll head north of the island,” he said to Percy, 
after a few minutes of vigorous rowing. “The flood 
*11 be running for the next three hours, and that ’d 
naturally set us toward the north ; but before we get 
to Tarpaulin the wind ’ll be blowing us the other way. 
We’ve got to allow for both.” 

Fifteen minutes went by, thirty, a full hour. Little 
by little Seal Island sank behind them and the familiar 
outlines of Tarpaulin loomed clearer and higher. The 
increasing breeze, blowing against the ocean current, 
kicked up a lively chop, on which the dory danced 
skittishly. It took all Spurling ’s strength and skill 
to drive her onward. 


204 


BLOWN OFF 


At four o’clock they still had between four and five 
miles to go. The sea was alive with white horses. 
As the boat fell into the trough Percy momentarily 
lost sight of the island. He now recognized Spurling’s 
wisdom in heading so far north of their goal. But 
for that they would inevitably have been blown off 
their course. 

Jim was buckling to his task like a Trojan. Bare- 
headed, shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up 
above his elbows, he swayed to and fro, a tireless^ 
human machine. His blades entered the rough sea 
cleanly and came out on the feather. Admiringly, 
almost enviously, Percy watched the play of the 
banded muscles on his brawny forearms. He would 
have given anything to be as strong as his dory-mate. 

Past five o’clock, and still over two miles to the 
island. It was growing rougher every minute. The 
gale had fairly begun. It sheared the crests off the 
racing billows and flung them over the boat in 
showers of spray. Now and then a bucketful came 
aboard. It kept Percy busy bailing. 

Occasionally Jim brought the dory head to the 
wind and lay on his oars to rest. After all, human 
muscles, powerful as they may be, are not steel and 
india-rubber. 

“Pretty rough, isn’t it?” said he, at one of these 
intervals. “Seasick, old man? You look a little 
white around the gills.” 

Percy shook his head. The situation was too 
serious for seasickness. In spite of the jocularity of 
his words, Jim’s voice sounded hollow. Both of them 
knew that it meant a hard fight to reach Tarpaulin. 

Silence, gray and leaden as the misty sky, settled 
205 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

over the dory. Spurling was throwing all the strength 
he possessed into every stroke; Percy bailed con- 
tinuously. It took considerably more than an hour 
to make the next mile and a half. A rainy haze, 
driving down from the north, had shrouded the 
island, and Brimstone Point was barely visible. 

Jim’s strokes were slower; they lacked their earlier 
force. His face showed the strain of the last hour. 
Uneasily Percy noted these signs of weariness. 

“Tired, Jim?” 

“Yes.” 

The brief monosyllable struck Percy with dismay. 
If Spurhng’s strength should give out, what would 
happen to the dory? 

“Don’t you want me to row awhile?” 

“You can take her for a few minutes.” 

Scrambling forward, Percy grasped the oars and 
took Jim’s place on the thwart. The latter lay 
down flat on his back in the bottom of the dory. 
Apparently he was not far from complete ex- 
haustion. 

“Keep her up into the wind as well as you can,” 
he directed. 

Percy did his best; hn\ he found it a hard job. 
The gale, now far stronger than the tide that flowed 
against it under the surface, was forcing them steadily 
southward. Brimstone Point could just be seen, a 
half-mile to the northeast. 

Though he pulled his heart out, Percy could tell 
that he was losing ground, or rather water, every 
second. The wind mocked his efforts. He could not 
keep the boat on her course. Big rollers swashed 
against the port bow and broke aboard. Jim raised 
206 


BLOWN OFF 

a drenched face, haggard with weariness, and took 
in the situation. 

“Harder, Perce!” he urged. “Hold her up till I 
can get my breath. It’s the ocean for us to-night, 
if we don’t hit Brimstone.” 

Spurred by this exhortation, Percy jerked at the 
oars savagely and unskilfully. As he swayed back 
there was a sharp snap, and the starboard oar broke 
squarely, just above the blade. 

Round swung the dory, head to the south. Up 
started SpurHng with a cry of alarm, his fatigue 
forgotten. 

“You’ve done it now!” 

Wrenching the port oar from his horrified mate, 
he sprang aft, dropped it in the notch on the stem, 
headed the boat once more for the island, and began 
sculling with all his might. 

It was a hopeless attempt. However strong he 
might be, no man with only one oar could make 
headway into the teeth of such a gale. For a time his 
desperate efforts held the dory in her place. Then 
little by little she began to go astern. 

With sinking heart Percy watched Spurling’s 
shoulders rack and twist as he threw his last ounce 
into his sculling. By degrees his motions became 
slower and more painful. Suddenly he pulled in the 
oar and dropped it clattering aboard. 

“No use!” he groaned as he toppled backward 
and collapsed in the bottom of the dory. 


XVIII 


BUOY OR BREAKER 

C ONSTERNATION seized Percy. Never before 
had he known Jim to acknowledge himself 
beaten. Their plight must be serious indeed. 

The dory swung side to the sea and sank into the 
trough. A half -barrel of water slopped aboard. 
Percy bestirred himself. Setting the oar in the scull- 
hole, he brought the boat’s head once more into the 
wind. He was not strong enough to drive her against 
it; but he could at least keep her pointed into the 
teeth of the gale and prevent her from swamping. 
He dropped to his knees, for it was too rough for him 
to keep his balance if he stood upright. 

How far off was Tarpaulin? As he looked back 
a red glare sprang up northeast. Budge and Throppy 
had fired the driftwood beacon on Brimstone Point. 
Small good it would do Jim and himself to-night 
They could not reach the island with one oar, and 
it was now too dark for their friends on Tarpaulin to 
make out the drifting dory. 

Percy began sculling frantically. 

‘‘Hi! Hi! Hulloo-oo!” he yelled. “Oh, Budge! 
Oh, Throppy! We’re going to sea! Come out and 
get us!” 

It was hke shouting against a solid wall. His cries 
208 


BUOY OR BREAKER 


were whirled away by the gale. Presently he became 
silent, realizing that he was wasting his breath. 

Rapidly the dory drifted seaward. The fire dimmed 
to a misty red glow. A smart shower burst, and great 
drops spattered over the dory. 

Jim sat up. He turned his face toward the island, 
and Percy knew his eyes had caught the dying 
beacon. He said nothing ; there was nothing to say. 
In a little while all was black, north, east, south, 
and west. 

Then Jim spoke, and his voice was as calm and 
deliberate as if he were in the cabin on the island, 
instead of a mile to leeward, driving to sea before a 
norther. 

“Well, Perce, we’re in for it! I’m sorry I spoke so 
sharp when you broke that oar. It’s an accident 
liable to happen to anybody. Let’s take account of 
stock! We’re in for a night and more on the water, 
and we want to do oiu* best to keep on top of it, and 
not under it, until the gale blows itself out. The 
prospect isn’t exactly rosy; still, it might be a 
blamed sight worse. We’re in a good dory, and that’s 
the best sea boat that floats.” 

“Aren’t we likely to be picked up before morning?” 

“Pretty slim chance. Everything small has 
scooted to harbor long before this. We haven’t any 
light, and a vessel or steamer large enough to pay 
no attention to the storm would be as liable to run 
us down as to pick us up. So about the best we can 
hope for is to have everything give us a wide berth 
until daylight.” 

“Will the gale last as long as that?” 

“Longer, I’m afraid. ’Most always we have one 
209 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

good, big norther in August that blows two or three 
days. I’m really the one to blame for getting us 
into this mess. I know the sea, and you don’t. I 
ought to have had brains enough to stop on Seal 
Island. Well, it’s no use crying over spilled milk. 
The only thing now is to try not to spill any 
more.” 

The rain was descending in torrents. Storm and 
night drew a narrow circle of gloom about the reel- 
ing boat. 

Spurling tried to rise to his feet. The dory jumped 
like a bucking horse, and he caught the gunwale 
just in time to escape being pitched overboard. 

‘‘Jerusalem!” he gasped. “Guess I won’t try that 
again! Hands and knees are good enough for me. 
Hold her, Perce! I’ll throw out some of this water.” 

Kneeling in the flood that swashed from bow to 
stem, he bailed vigorously until the boat was fairly 
clear. 

“No use wearing ourselves out trying to keep her 
head to it with the oar!” said he. “I’m going to rig 
a drug!” 

Directly under Percy’s arms, as he sculled, was a 
trawl-tub containing their purchases at Matinicus. 
These Jim tossed into the stem. Taking the tub, he 
crept forward. A lanyard of six-thread manila, put 
across double between holes in the top of its sides, 
formed a rope bridle or bail. To the middle of this 
bail Jim tied the thirty-foot painter with a clove 
hitch. Then he dropped the tub over the bow. 

“Pull in your oar, Perce!” he called out. 

Percy obeyed gladly. A heavy sea stmck the dory. 
She reared, shot back, and started to swing sidewise. 

210 


BUOY OR BREAKER 


Then the “drug” caught her, and she seesawed 
again up into the wind and rode springily. 

The tub, filled with water, and drifting on its side 
thirty feet before the bow at the end of the straight- 
ened-out painter, formed a floating anchor, which 
held the dory head to the wind and sea. Practically 
submerged, and offering the gale no surface to get 
hold of, it moved much more slowly than the high- 
sided boat, and so retarded its course. 

Jim came crawHng aft again. 

“Guess that ’ll hold her!” he exclaimed. “I’ve 
strengthened the lanyard with some groimd-line, 
and it ought to last us through the night. We’ll 
be as snug as if we were in Sprowl’s Cove, hey, 
Perce?” 

Percy could hardly agree with him. The roaring, 
rain-shot blackness, roofed with murky clouds and 
floored with rushing surges, was not calculated to 
inspire confidence in a landsman. With every sea 
the dory leaped back several feet, until the straight- 
ened painter brought her up. Showers of spray 
flew over the boys. It was well both were clad in 
oilskins. 

They were not entirely without light. The water 
was firing. Every breaking wave dissolved in phos- 
phorescence. The tub before the bow was out- 
lined in radiance; the whipping painter was trans- 
muted to a rope of silver; and as the dory split the 
crashing rollers they streamed away in sparkles of 
ghostly flame. Even in their peril the boys could not 
help appreciating the weird beauty of the display. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Percy. “Say, Jim, 
how far south’s the nearest land?” 

2II 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Somewhere around two thousand miles, I guess. 
Too far to interest us any. I think it’s one of the 
West Indies.” 

The wind was growing stronger, the sea rougher. 
Now and then a young flood set both boys bailing, 
Jim with the bucket, Percy with the scoop. 

“Won’t do to let it gain too much on us,” remarked 
Jim. “She can’t sink; but if she should All it ’d be 
pretty uncomfortable.” 

The rain had ceased; the clouds did not hang so 
low. Suddenly Percy gave a whoop of joy. 

“Look in the west!” 

Not far above the horizon appeared a rift of clear 
blue sky, sown with stars. Longer and wider it grew. 
Other rifts added themselves to it, and in an un- 
believably short time the entire heaven was swept 
clean. But somehow the wind seemed to blow harder 
than before. 

“How soon will it calm down?” asked Percy. 

Jim shook his head. 

“Can’t say! May be a dry blow for two days 
longer.” 

He looked eastward. 

“What’s that coming? Steamer?” 

Sure enough it was. Below the white light on the 
masthead appeared and disappeared the red and 
green, obscured intermittently by the tossing waves. 
Soon they could be seen all the time. Percy began 
to grow excited. 

“Suppose they’ll pick us up?” 

“Not a chance in a thousand. It’s too rough for 
the lookout to spy our boat, and, even if the steamer 
should come close, we could never make her hear. 

212 


BUOY OR BREAKER 


She’s either a tramp or an ocean Hner from Halifax 
for Portland.” 

On she plowed unswervingly and majestically, 
straight toward them. 

“I’m afraid she’s coming too near for comfort,” 
said Jim, anxiously. “She might run us down and 
never know it. Lots of fishermen have gone that 
way. Ship that oar in the scull-hole. I’m going to 
haul in the drug.” 

He lifted the trawl-tub aboard and sprang quickly 
aft. 

“We’ll know pretty quick whether she’s likely to 
pass ahead or astern. We can’t count on being seen. 
We’ve got to look out for ourselves.” 

Freed from its floating anchor, the dory bobbed 
wildly. Wielding his oar skilfully, Spurling held her 
bow to the north, ready to scull for the last inch, or 
to let her drop back, as the approach of the steamer 
might make it advisable. 

Closer and closer came the big boat; her lights 
oscillated with pendulum-like regularity as she rolled 
on the heavy seas. 

“She’ll pass astern,” was Jim’s verdict. “Won’t 
do to drift in front of her.” 

He sculled strongly, keeping an anxious eye on the 
threatening monster. Percy’s hair bristled. 

“Harder, Jim!” he shouted. “She’s going to run 
us down! Steamer ahoy! Keep off! Keep off!” 

The rushing foam smothered his cries. Meanwhile 
Spurling worked like a steam-engine. Two lives 
hung on his oar-blade. 

As the knife-like stem sheared past, close astern, 
the green eye disappeared; the red glared menac- 
213 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

ingly down from the huge bulk looming overhead. 
Then the lofty black side swept by, flashing an occa- 
sional ray from a lighted port-hole. The screw gave 
them a sickening moment, but they soon tossed 
safely astern, breathing hard, eyes on the dwindling 
leviathan, wallowing westward. 

Jim spoke first: “Close as they make ’em! I’m 
glad that’s over!’’ 

Percy agreed with all his heart. Jim had dis- 
covered that the tub was becoming a bit shaky, 
so he reinforced the lanyard, and strengthened 
the bottom by binding it with ground-line. Be- 
fore long it was towing again in front of the bow, 
as good as new. 

Hours passed, but the intensity of the gale did not 
slacken. The sea was frightfully rough. It kept the 
boys bailing continually. 

Dawn broke at last. On the eastern horizon grew 
a pale light, against which the ragged, savagely leap- 
ing crests were silhouetted weirdly. It brightened to 
a crimson glow, and soon the sun was shooting its 
fiery arrows across the heaving, glittering waste. 

The forenoon wore slowly on as they drifted 
steadily south. The water around the dory was alive 
with whirlpools. Gigantic green seas rushed down as 
if to overwhelm her, but she flirted her bow aloft 
and rode them stanchly. 

Percy, glancing to starboard, saw a black fin cut- 
ting the slope of a watery ridge. 

“Shark, Jim?” 

“Yes. And there’s another to port. They’re look- 
ing for trouble. They’ll stick by till we’re out of 
this scrape or in a worse one.” 

214 


BUOY OR BREAKER 


He was right. The sun reached its zenith and be- 
gan to descend, but still the black fins wove then- 
ceaseless circles round the boat. 

Jim had been scanning the sea, hand over his eyes. 

“There’s a schooner,” he remarked, without en- 
thusiasm. 

Percy was all excitement. 

“Where? Where?” 

“Up there, two miles to windward. Double reefed 
and clawing west. She’d never see us in a thousand 
years, and if she did she couldn’t do us any good. 
Forget her!” 

The schooner inched her way imperceptibly under 
the horizon. The boys had eaten nothing for twenty- 
four hours; excitement had prevented them from 
feeling hungry. Now they came to a realization that 
they had stomachs, and they finished half the hard 
bread remaining in the bag. 

“We’ll save the rest,” decided Jim. “May need it 
worse later than we do now.” 

Percy could easily have eaten twice his share, but 
he recognized the wisdom of Jim’s decision. Both 
were very thirsty, but without a drop of fresh water 
aboard there was nothing to do but wait. 

At four o’clock came disaster. The drug suddenly 
let go ! 

Round whirled the dory, side to the seas. Jim 
grabbed the oar and jammed it into the scull-hole, 
but before he could wet the blade a crumbling roller 
almost swamped the boat. Out went everything that 
would float. 

“Save that bucket, Perce!” shouted Spurling. 

Percy clutched the handle just as the pail was go- 
215 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

ing over the side. He bailed, while Spurling brought 
the flooded craft stem to the seas. 

^‘Take her now, Perce! Give me the bucket!’* 

Furiously he began scooping out the water. After 
a long, discomaging fight the boat was bailed clear. 

“We’ve got to run before it while I rig another 
drug,” said Spurling. “Keep her as she is.” 

In the stem stood a five-gallon can of gasolene, 
one of the few things that had not been washed over- 
board when the dory filled. Making use of the sadly 
diminished coil of ground-line, Jim fastened this can 
to the end of the painter. Picldng a smooth chance, 
he swung the bow up into the wind again ; and soon 
they were floating snugly behind their new drug. 

For another hour they drifted uneventfully. Out 
of a cloudless sky the red sun dropped below the 
flying spindrift. A second night was coming, and 
still the norther raged with undiminished violence. 

It was growing dark and the stars were already 
out when a new sound fell on Percy’s ears. 

“What’s that?” he exclaimed. 

Up from the south came a faint, long-drawn, 
mournful voice, Oo-oo-oo-ooh! They listened breath- 
lessly. It sounded again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh! 

“Whistling buoy!” ejaculated Jim. He thought a 
moment. “Cashe’s Ledge!” he shouted. “Sixty 
miles south of Tarpaulin! That’s drifting some since 
yesterday afternoon. Must be less than a mile to 
leeward or we couldn’t hear it against this gale.” 

Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, sounded the 
melancholy note, just west of south. Both boys 
strained their eyes. 

“I see it!” cried Percy, triumphantly. “There — 
216 


BUOY OR BREAKER 

rising on that swell! Almost astern ! It’s striped red 
and black!” 

But Jim gave him no heed. Lips parted and face 
pale, he was gazing intently at something farther off. 
Suddenly he lifted his hand. 

Listen ! Do you hear that ?’ ’ 

Above the noise of the surrounding sea rose a low, 
savage roar. Percy caught Jim’s alarm. 

“What is it?” 

“The breaker on the shoal! Sometimes it combs 
up high as a house. It’s less than a quarter-mile 
southwest of the buoy, and we’re drifting straight 
down upon it! If we go over it, we’ll be swamped, 
sure as fate, drug or no drug! We’ll simply be buried 
under tons and tons of water!” 

Percy fought off his panic. 

“What shall we do?” he stammered. 

“Make the whistler — if we can. It’s buoy or 
breaker, and mighty quick, too!” 

The dory’s drift, if unchanged, would take her 
several yards west of the steel can crowned with its 
red whistle-cage. Its warning blast set the air vi- 
brating, Oo-oo-oo-ooh! 

Jim snatched out his knife and sprang forward. 

“Oar in the scull-hole, Perce! Lively!” 

Driving the point of his blade into the side of the 
bow, he dragged the painter in until he reached the 
gasolene-can. Severing the rope with one quick, 
strong slash, he scrambled aft and seized the oar. 

“Stand by with that painter to jump for the 
buoy, when I put the bow against it ! Better take off 
your shoes first!” 

Percy obeyed. In his stocking feet he would be 
217 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

less liable to slip on the wet iron. Making a loose 
coil of the painter, he crouched in the bow. Mean- 
while Jim had turned the dory round and headed 
her north of the whistler. A strong current was set- 
ting toward the shoal. It took all his strength to 
scull against it. 

Rapidly they neared the can. About eight feet in 
diameter at the water-Hne, it tapered to two feet 
across its flat top, seven feet above. From the cir- 
cumference rose two iron bails, crossing each other 
at right angles, several inches above the whistle, 
which stood two and one-half feet high. A little to 
one side stuck up the small tube of the intake valve. 
Roimd the buoy above the water-line were bolted 
foiu* lugs, or iron handles, by which the can could 
be hoisted on board the Hghthouse steamer. 

As the steel cone sank the whistle bellowed reso- 
nantly. Down, down, till the waves swept over its 
top. Then, slowly it began to rise. The bellowing 
cut off, and the air rushed into the intake tube. 

Percy watched it, fascinated. Jim’s voice roused 
him to their peril. 

“Look sharp! Be ready!” 

Less than ten feet of wild black water lay between 
the madly leaping bow and the buoy. Beyond it the 
shoal broke with an angry roar in a long line of 
crumbling foam. Percy gathered his strength for 
the leap. 

The distance lessened, foot by foot. Foot by foot 
the red-and-black cone emerged, as if thrust up by 
a giant hand. Percy fastened his eyes on a lug. 

A grayback heaved the dory forward. 

“Now!” screamed Jim. 

218 


BUOY OR BREAKER 

Young Whittington sprang upon the bow thwart, 
painter end in his right hand, and leaped for the 
lug. A second later the boat crashed against the 
buoy. 

His left hand caught the bent iron bar; his right 
missed it. His body thudded against the riveted 
side, slid down, and he hung by one arm, waist-deep 
in the water. 

Oo-oo-oo-ooH ! ! ! 

From the inverted mouth of the whistle, a few 
feet above, a hoarse, deafening blast roared down 
into his face. 

As he flung up his right hand and passed the end 
of the painter through the lug a body shot over 
his head. Spurling had leaped on the top of the 
dropping buoy. Percy was dragged down under the 
surface, the whistle still ringing in his ears. He clung 
desperately to lug and painter. 

The vibrations ceased. The can had reached its 
lowest point. It was rising again. Out came his 
head. 

“Can you hold on a minute, Perce?” roared Spur- 
ling’s voice. 

“Yes,” strangled Percy. 

“Then let go that painter! I’ve got it.” 

Hanging head down, his legs twined round a bail, 
Spurling worked rapidly with both hands. Soon he 
had fastened the rope securely to the lug, mooring 
the dory to the buoy. 

Oo-oo-oo-ooH I 

The can was sinking again. Putting both hands 
under Percy’s arms, Jim lifted him. Then he lowered 
his grip to the boy’s waist. That terrific blast ren- 
15 219 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

dered speech inaudible, but Percy understood. As 
the water raised part of his weight, he scrambled up 
over his friend’s body. 

Thirty seconds later, drenched and gasping, they 
stood clinging to the bails on the top of the buoy. 


1 


XIX 


ON THE WHISTLER 

J IM was the first to recover his breath. 

“Well!” he ejaculated. “Here we are! And 
mighty fortunate! We’ll neither of us ever have a 
closer shave.” 

He looked southwest, where the ledge was break- 
ing white through the gloom, and shook his head. 
Percy, shivering with excitement, said nothing; but 
he felt as thankful as his mate. They stood close 
together on the circular top, holding on to the crossed 
bails, waist-high. Between them rose the whistle, 
thirty inches tall. Every time they sank in the 
trough it emitted its dismal bellow. 

To leeward the dory wallowed at the end of her 
painter, almost full of water. 

“Split her bow when we struck,” said Spurling. 
“Just as well not to be in her. At any rate, we’re 
not drifting.” 

Their position, however, was none too secure. The 
buoy had a rise and fall of seven feet. Unsteadied 
by keel or rudder, it bobbed unexpectedly this way 
and that. The boys were obliged to cling fast to 
keep their footing on the narrow, slippery top. 

A sudden jump of the rolling can wrenched Percy’s 
221 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

light hand from its hold. But for his left, he would 
have been flung into the sea. 

'‘That won’t do,” said Spurling. 

Producing a coil of Hne, he took three or four 
turns round Percy’s waist, and lashed him fast to the 
bails. He did the same for himself. 

"Guess we’ll stick on now,” he remarked. 

"Where did you get that rope?” asked Percy. 

"It’s all that’s left of the ground-line. Thought 
it might come in handy, so I jammed it inside my 
oil-coat before I jumped. Never can tell when you’ll 
need a few feet for something or other.” 

The screech of the buoy, recurring regularly, set 
their ears ringing. 

"We’ve got to choke that off!” exclaimed Spurling, 
finally. "We’ll go crazy, sure, if we have to listen 
to it all night.” 

"How ’ll you do it? Jam something into the 
mouth of the whistle?” 

"Might smother it that way, but I know an easier 
one. 

He pushed his handkerchief into the curved end 
of the intake tube just as the bellowing buoy reached 
its lowest point. The next time it sank there was 
no sound. 

"Can’t sing out unless it fills up with air,” re- 
marked Spurling. "It’s human, so far!” 

"Is it all right to shut the signal off altogether? 
Mightn’t some vessel strike the shoal if she doesn’t 
hear it?” 

"Not much chance of that to-night! Every- 
thing ’ll give Cashe’s a wide berth in a norther. 
But I’ll let it scream a few times every ten min- 
222 



THEY STOOD CLOSE TOGETHER ON THE CIRCULAR TOP, HOLDING 
ON TO THE CROSSED BAILS, WAIST-HIGH 



ON THE WHISTLER 


utes. That ’ll be often enough to warn off any 
craft within hearing.” 

The last red embers of the sunset died out, and 
from horizon to horizon the sky was ablaze with 
stars. Even the boys, wet, hungry, and exhausted, 
could not be bHnd to such magnificence. 

“Good evening to study astronomy, Perce!” 

Never saw a finer I But I’d want a steadier foun- 
dation than this for my telescope.” 

As on the previous night, the sea was aglow with 
phosphorescence. Every wave was crested with 
silver. Buoy and tugging dory kept the water alive 
with light as they rose and fell. Leeward the long 
shoal broke in glittering foam. 

SpurHng gazed silently down into the eddying 
tide. 

“Runs fast, doesn’t it?” said Percy. 

“Yes; it’s the ebb out of Fundy. Comes piling 
down over Cashe’s at a two-knot rate. When the 
flood begins it ’ll run just as hard the other way. 
That’s what makes the shoal so dangerous. There’s 
only from four to seven fathoms over the ledge at low 
water, and that’s little enough in a storm.” 

“Were you ever down here before?” 

“No; but I’ve heard Uncle Tom Sprowl tell about 
the place dozens of times. Once, in particular, he 
was here in a schooner, hand-lining. It was almost 
calm, just a light east wind blowing, when they 
anchored an eighth of a mile to weather of the shoal. 
Pretty soon the decks were alive with fish. It kept 
breezing on all the time, and the ledge broke higher 
and higher; but they were having such good luck 
they hated to leave. So they hung to it till it got 
223 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

too rough for a small boat, and the breaker was 
twenty or thirty feet high. There was a big cod or 
haddock on every line, when all of a sudden the 
cable parted and they began to blow down on the 
ledge. It took some lively work to save the 
schooner and themselves. They got sail on her 
just in time to skin by the end of the breaker. 
Uncle Tom’s been out in some pretty bad storms, 
but he’s always said the time he parted his cable 
on Cashe’s was the closest shave he ever had. See 
that shark!” 

Ten yards off, just under the surface, appeared 
the glittering outlines of a great fish. It moved 
leisurely, its projecting fin making a silver ripple. 

“Twelve feet, if he’s an inch! I’d hate to fall over- 
board while he’s around.” 

“Think he’s a man-eater?” 

“Don’t know! But I’d rather let somebody else 
find out. There’s another! I’ve heard fishermen say 
the sea round here’s alive with ’em. I haven’t a 
doubt but those two fellows that chased us to-day 
are somewhere about. Once they get after a boat, 
they’ll follow it till the cows come home. Guess I’ll 
let Ole Bull give us a few notes!” 

He pulled his handkerchief out of the intake tube. 
Presently the voice of the whistle was echoing across 
the sea. After a half-dozen screeches Spurling 
stopped up the tube again. 

“That ’ll do for now! We’ll give him another 
chance in ten minutes.” 

Up and down went the buoy, pitching and reeling 
dizzily. An occasional wave-crest buried the boys 
to the waist. 


224 


ON THE WHISTLER 


“No place for a man with a weak stomach, hey, 
Perce,” said Spurling. “You couldn’t have stood 
this two months ago.” 

Percy was gazing intently southward. 

“What’s that white spot?” he asked, suddenly, 
pointing to a glittering patch fifty or sixty yards 
square. 

“School of herring! Now look out for some fun! 
Something’s liable to be after ’em any minute.” 

Hardly had the words left Jim’s mouth when a 
great white streak moved rapidly toward the school- 
ing fish. 

“Whale!” shouted Spurling, excitedly. “Watch 
out!” 

With a tremendous rush the huge, gleaming body 
shot suddenly clear of the water. For an instant it 
hung suspended, ten feet above the surface. Then, 
with a mighty splash, it dropped back, right amid the 
herring. The glittering school dispersed in a thousand 
directions, and the monster moved slowly off to the 
south. 

‘ ‘ Biggest whale I ever saw, ’ ’ observed Jim . “ Fully 
seventy feet long! Well, he’s had one good meal. 
Wish we could say the same! Hungry, old man?” 

“ Yes ; but more thirsty. ’ ’ 

“Stick to it! Somebody’s likely to show up at any 
time to-morrow and take us off.” 

“But if they don’t — ” 

“We’ll have to hang on till they do.” 

Percy could hardly stand upright. His joints 
ached. His eyelids sagged heavily for want of sleep. 
He would have given anything if he could have lain 
down. But that was impossible. Something of his 
225 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

father’s doggedness enabled him to set his teeth and 
stand clinging to the bails. 

Their plight was bad enough, but it might have 
been much worse. Percy shivered a bit as he looked 
at the wallowing dory and the breaker beyond it. 

The buoy could not drift. It could not founder. 
It afforded them a safe refuge from wind and sea; 
but it could not give them food or drink. 

Particularly drink. Every atom in Percy’s body, 
every corpuscle in his blood, seemed to be crying 
out for water. It did not seem as if he could endure 
it. He was almost desperate enough to quench his 
thirst from the sea. But, no! Men who did that 
went crazy. He moistened his dry lips with his 
tongue. If only he could have had a full dipper from 
the spring behind the camp ! And he had turned up 
his nose because it was brackish ! 

“Wish I had some of Filippo’s hot biscuits!’’ said 
Jim. “I can taste ’em now.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t, Jim ! It makes me feel worse. How long 
can a man stand it without eating and drinking?” 

“There was a fisherman out of Bass Harbor, last 
October, who went in a power-boat to Clay Bank 
after hake. His engine played out and he got blown off 
by a northwester. For over five days he didn’t have a 
thing to eat or drink. Then he got back to Mount 
Desert Rock. That’s the longest I ever heard of.” 

Five days! And they had not yet gone two. 
Percy became silent again. 

The night dragged painfully. With mortal slow- 
ness the Great Bear circled the Pole Star. Jim was 
acquainted with the principal constellations, and he 
ran them over for Percy’s benefit. Gradually, how- 
226 


ON THE WHISTLER 


ever, their conversation lagged. You cannot feei 
much interest in astronomy when your eyes feel as 
if they were being pressed down by leaden weights 
and your stomach is absolutely empty. 

Percy’s body drooped over the bails. Though the 
position was horribly uncomfortable, he had all he 
could do to prevent himself from going to sleep, 
even despite the occasional screeches of the whistle. 
With an immense effort he stiffened himself upright. 
Jim was gazing down into the water. 

“It’s going to moderate before long,” he remarked, 
casually. 

Percy came wide awake in an instant. 

“How can you tell? It’s blowing as hard as 
ever.” 

“I know that. But the tide doesn’t run so strong 
against the buoy. Just as it always makes up before 
the wind comes, so it begins to go down before the 
wind lessens. I believe the gale ’ll blow itself out 
by the middle of the forenoon.” 

The news seemed too good to be true; but it dis- 
pelled Percy’s drowsiness. He pried his eyes open 
and stared around. 

The waves were still running high and breaking in 
fiery sparkles. The silver sharks unwearyingly kept 
their silent vigil about the rocking buoy. Up the 
eastern horizon was stealing a faint pallor, harbinger 
of the approaching dawn. 

Lighter and lighter it grew. The gulls, which had 
been floating on the water all night, began to take 
wing and fill the air with their grating cries. The 
phosphorescence died out of the sea. Another day 
had begun. 


227 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Raising his right hand, Spurling turned its open 
palm toward the north. 

“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “The wind 
is going down.” 

Even Percy could see that it was not blowing so 
hard. The water, too, had grown much smoother, 
and the roar of the breaker was not so loud. 

“It ’ll be calm as a mill-pond in a few hours,” 
remarked Jim. “By noon there ought to be some 
fishermen out here. They always start from Port- 
land on the end of a norther, and run for this buoy to 
make their grounds from. All we’ve got to do now 
is to hold on and wait.” 

He pulled in the dory and looked her carefully 
over. 

“Bow split open, as I thought,” said he. “But 
apart from that she isn’t damaged any. A little 
work ’ll make her as good as new. And in the stem 
is that box with the piston-rod in it. I’d have hated 
to lose that, after all this fuss. Things might have 
turned out a good deal worse, eh, Perce? But the 
next time I’ll know enough to hang up at Seal 
Island.” 

Jim’s cheerfulness was contagious. Percy felt 
better. Though he was still tormented by hunger 
and thirst, the thought that relief might soon come 
gave him courage to endure them. Jim let the dory 
slip back to the end of her painter. 

“Might as well take an Indian breakfast.” 

He buckled his belt a hole tighter. 

“ Not a sail in sight yet ! We could lie down in the 
dory and go to sleep, if she wasn’t full of water. 
But, as things are, we’ll have to make ourselves as 
228 


ON THE WHISTLER 


comfortable as we can right here. Let’s hope it 
won’t be for long!” 

The gale weakened to a brisk breeze. The sea 
fell rapidly to a long, lazy swell, on which the buoy 
rocked drowsily. The warm sun inclined the boys 
to sleep ; but they fought it off and scanned the hori- 
zon with eager eyes. Seven o’clock. Eight. Nine. 
Ten. And still no sign of a sail. 

At half past ten a smoke-feather rose in the 
east. 

'‘Yarmouth boat on her way to Boston,” said 
Jim. “She’ll pass too far north to see us.” 

He was right. The steamer’s course kept her on 
the horizon, several miles off. Before long she van- 
ished to the west. Half past eleven went by, and 
no fishermen appeared. Percy began to fear that 
Jim was mistaken, after all. 

“Here comes our packet,” remarked Spurling, 
quietly. 

A tiny saw-tooth of canvas was rising out of the 
sea, miles northwest. As it grew larger it developed 
into a schooner under full sail, heading straight for 
the buoy. 

“She sees us,” said Jim. 

Percy felt Hke dancing for joy. Nearer and nearer 
came the schooner. The boys could see her crew 
staring curiously at them from along her rail. Fifty 
yards off she shot up into the wind and prepared to 
launch a boat. They could read the name on her 
starboard bow. 

“The Grade King'' spelled Spurhng. “I know 
her. She’s a Harpswell vessel. Come out to seine 
herring. Bet she left Portland early this morning. 

229 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Her captain’s Silas Greenlaw; he used to sail with 
Uncle Tom. He’ll use us O. K.” 

A dory with two men in it came rowing toward 
the buoy. 

‘‘How long ’ve you fellows been hanging on here?” 
shouted a red-sweatered, gray-haired man in the 
stem. 

“Since six last night. We blew down from Tar- 
paulin Island in the norther. Don’t you know me, 
Captain Greenlaw?” 

“Why, it’s Jim Spurling, Tom Sprowl’s nephew!” 
exclaimed the astonished captain. “So the gale blew 
you down from Tarpaulin, eh? Well, all I’ve got to 
say is that you were confounded lucky to hit the 
buoy and not the breaker. How long since you’ve 
had anything to eat or drink?” 

“Forty-six hours since we’ve had a swallow of 
water, and about twenty since we finished our last 
hard bread.” 

“Well, well! You must be hungry and thirsty! 
Come right aboard and we’ll see what we can do 
for you.” 

Gladly the boys cut the lashings that bound them 
to the bails. The whistle gave a screech of farewell 
as they tumbled stiffly into the boat. The solid deck 
of the Grade felt good beneath their feet. 

“You can have all the water you want, boys; but 
you’d better go light on food at first,” cautioned the 
captain. 

It seemed to Percy as if he could never get enough 
to drink. Gradually, however, his thirst was 
quenched. He began to realize that he had not slept 
for two days and a half. 

230 


ON THE WHISTLER 


“I’d like to carry you right back to the island,’’ 
said Captain Greenlaw, “for your friends must be 
worrying. But there are lots of herring here, and 
I’ve got to get a load first. That may take two or 
three days. I’ll land you at TarpauHn on my way 
home. Better turn in and sleep.” 

The boys were shortly wrapped in a heavy, dream- 
less slumber. It seemed to them as if they had just 
closed their eyes when they were shaken awake again. 

“Here’s the cutter!” exclaimed the captain. 
“They got a wireless to hunt you up. Going to mn 
in to Rockland, and can land you at Tarpaulin this 
evening. What do you say?” 

Tired though they were, Jim and Percy were only 
too glad of a chance to get home speedily. So they 
were transferred to the Pollux, and their leaking 
dory hoisted aboard. Swung in hammocks in the 
seamen’s quarters, they were soon slumbering dream- 
lessly again. 

At eight that night the Pollux stopped off the isl- 
and.' The dory, made sound and tight by the ship’s 
carpenter, was dropped overboard, and the boys 
rowed into Sprowl’s Cove. 

Their appearance transformed the gloom that over- 
hung Camp Spurling into the wildest joy. Budge, 
Throppy, and Fihppo burst out of the cabin and raced 
headlong down the beach,, waking the echoes with 
their shouts of welcome. Even before the dory 
grounded they tumbled aboard and flung their arms 
about the castaways. No brothers, reunited after 
deadly peril, could have given one another a warmer 
greeting. 

Jim freed his hands at last, stooped, and picked 
231 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

up a package which he tossed out on the gravel. 
There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes. 

“There’s the piston-rod!’’ said he in a rather 
choky voice. “I guess we’ll get our set all right 
day after to-morrow.” 


XX 


SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 

I T was almost noon the next day before Jim and 
Percy rolled out of their bunks in Camp Spurling. 
One of Filippo’s best dinners satisfied the last crav- 
ings of their appetites; but for a week they felt the 
strain of their forty-seven hours in the dory and on 
the buoy. 

‘‘When did you reach the Pollux y Throppy?” 
asked Jim. 

“I didn’t reach her at all. When you didn’t show 
up that night I wirelessed Criehaven, and the op- 
erator there hit the cutter thirty miles to the west- 
ward the next forenoon. She began hunting for you 
right away, but it wasn’t until twenty -four hours 
later that she found you on the Grade King. We 
picked up a message from her some time after she 
took you off the schooner. Perhaps it didn’t relieve 
our minds!” 

Jim drew a long breath as he glanced round the 
cabin. 

“Seems good to be here! Not a bad old camp, 
is it, Perce?” 

“Never saw a hotel I’d swap it for,” replied Percy, 
promptly. 

Two mornings later Budge and Percy started in 
16 ^33 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

the sloop for Vinalhaven after a load of herring. 
Jim did not accompany them, as he had decided to 
spend a forenoon hauling and inspecting the lobster- 
traps. The Barracouta ran in alongside Hardy’s weir 
at nine o’clock and took aboard thirty bushels of 
small fish. She then went around to Carver’s Harbor 
to purchase supplies and fill her tank with gasolene. 

It was Percy’s first visit to the town since July 
4th, the occasion of his disastrous encounter with 
Jabe. In actual time, his defeat lay only a few weeks 
back; but, measured by the change that had taken 
place in himself, the period might well have been 
years in length. 

Percy was treading hostile ground, and he knew 
it. Prudence might have counseled him to remain 
on board the Barracouta while Budge was making 
his purchases. Instead, he chose to stroll carelessly 
along the main street. At a comer he passed a group 
of small boys, who recognized him at once. 

“It’s the fresh guy Jabe licked on the Fourth,” 
he heard one mutter in a low tone. “Let’s have 
some fun with him!” 

“’Sh!” exclaimed another. “Jabe’s over in Tal- 
cott’s grocery. We’ll get ’em together again!” 

Never interrupting his leisurely saunter, Percy 
passed out of hearing. But his heart was beating 
a little quicker and he was conscious of a tightening 
of nerves and muscles. Weeks of secret, painstaking 
preparation were drawing to a climax. 

Half -turning his head, he saw a barefooted urchin 
dash across the street and into a store on the other 
side. Percy began to whistle cheerfully as he strode 
along, alive to all that was taking place behind him. 
234 


SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 

Crossing the street, he was able to glance back with- 
out appearing to do so; and he was just in time to 
see a stout, freckle-faced, bullet-headed youth shoot 
out of the store and come hurrying after him, with 
an eager crowd of small fry trailing behind. 

Still feigning unconsciousness of the approaching 
peril, Percy proceeded, whistHng blithely. Through 
a gap between two buildings he had caught sight of 
a bam standing alone, some distance ahead and well 
to one side of the main street; its door was open, 
revealing a broad stretch of empty floor. He quick- 
ened his pace, and presently turned down the short 
street leading to the structure. Jabe and his retinue 
were less than fifty yards behind, and gaining rapidly. 
As Percy turned the comer they broke into a mn. 

At that same instant yoimg Whittington also 
began to sprint at top speed; and he kept up this 
pace as long as he felt sure the building on the comer 
concealed him from his pursuers. The second the 
sound of their approaching feet became audible he 
dropped into his former gait. He was now almost 
opposite the open door of the bam. 

His ears told him that Jabe and his crew had also 
swung into the cross-street. 

“Hey, there!” shouted a voice, roughly. 

Percy halted at once and wheeled about with 
affected surprise. A side glance into the bam told 
that its mows were well filled and that its floor was 
strewn with hayseed. Standing at ease, he awaited 
the approach of his foes. 

Jabe dashed up on the mn. Five feet from Percy 
he came to a sudden stop and pushed his bulldog 
jaw out belligerently. 


235 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Well,” he growled, scowling darkly, “I’ve got 
you at last just where I want you. You can’t cry 
baby now and run to that big, black-haired fellow. 
I’m going to lick you good!” 

Percy stared at his enemy in mild wonder. 

“What for?” he queried, innocently. 

But the outward calm of his tones and manner did 
not betray, even remotely, what was going on be- 
neath. His heart was ptimping like an engine, the 
blood coursed hotly through his arteries, and all 
over his body his wiry muscles had tensed and 
knotted. Nine weeks of vigorous life in the open, 
combined with systematic exercise, taken with the 
possibility in view of some time squaring his account 
with Jabe, had made of him an antagonist that even 
an older, heavier boy might well hesitate to tackle. 

Of all this Jabe was ignorant. He saw before him 
the same fellow he had mastered on the evening of 
the Fourth, a little browner and clearer-eyed, pos- 
sibly a Httle straighter and stouter, but stiU the same 
foe his fist had sent to the ground. Jabe knew of no 
reason why he could not easily repeat his victory, 
and he burned to do so in the presence of his ad- 
mirers. Percy’s harmless query roused him to im- 
reasoning anger. 

“What for?” he mimicked. “What for? Why, 
because I always intend to finish what I begin; and 
I had you only half -licked when they pulled me off. 
Now I’m going to polish you up to the queen’s taste. 
Hustle into that barn!” 

Percy allowed himself to be herded through the 
open door; it might have been noticed, however, that 
he was careful not to turn his back to Jabe, and 
236 


SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 

that he stepped springily, with his feet well apart. 
Once inside, he slid his sole over the hayseed that 
covered the floor; it was no slipperier than the carpet 
of needles in that glade of the evergreens where he 
had practised daily with his improvised punching- 
bag since the second week in July. A quick glance 
about photographed on his brain the details of the 
arena in which he was so soon to play the gladiator. 

Jabe misunderstood the glance, and it increased 
his eagerness to begin the fray. 

‘ ‘ Afraid, are you ? ” he sneered. * ‘ Looking for some 
way out? Well, there isn’t any besides this door. 
Line up across it, boys, and trip him if he tries to 
bolt before I get through with him. The rat’s cor- 
nered at last, and now he’s got to fight. Peel off that 
coat. Mister! Move quick. I don’t want to stop 
here all day!” 

Percy deliberately drew off the garment, folded 
it into a neat bundle, and laid it, with his cap, on 
a barrel in a comer of the floor. He had on a closely 
fitting black jersey, trousers held up by a belt, and 
mbber-soled tennis sneakers. This costume was not 
accidental. It had been donned that morning with 
an eye to possibilities and in accordance with pre- 
vious solitary rehearsals. Thus far, events could not 
have suited him better if he had planned them. 

His deliberate motions increased Jabe’s anger. 

''You’ll move faster than that when I get after 
you,” he sneered, "or it ’ll be over so quick that 
there won’t be any fun in it. Now put up your fists, 
for I’m going to lick you within an inch of your life! 
Guard that door, boys!” 

His grinning satellites lined up across the opening, 
237 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

two deep, eyes and mouths wide open. In the front 
rank Percy recognized the imp who had burnt his 
coat, Jabe’s brother, whose chastisement had started 
the trouble. The lad was dancing up and down with 
pleasurable anticipation. 

‘ ‘ Lick him, Jabe !’ ’ he shrilled. ‘ * Lick him, Jabe !' * 

Swinging his clenched fists windmill fashion, Jabe 
made a savage rush across the echoing floor. Percy 
waited until his foe was almost upon him, then 
agilely leaped to one side. Carried on by the mo- 
mentum of his charge, Jabe swept by and smashed 
against the wooden partition with a violence that 
set the hayseed sifting down from the loaded mow. 
Whirling about, he came back with increased rage. 

The boys yelled encouragement to their champion, 
their voices blending in a chorus, topped by his 
brother’s high-keyed falsetto : 

‘ ‘ Lick him, J abe ! Lick him, J abe !’ * 

Baffled in his first attempt, Jabe needed no ap- 
plause to incite him to his best efforts. His fists rose 
and fell Hke flails as he spumed the flooring in a 
second onslaught upon his nimble foe. Again Percy, 
standing motionless until his assailant was almost 
within arm’s-length, avoided his attack; and again 
Jabe brought up against the other wall with a force 
that made the boards rattle. 

Percy stood untouched a few feet away, smiling 
slightly, as his opponent gathered himself for an- 
other msh. The sight of his enemy, cool and un- 
ruffled, made Jabe furious. 

“Why don’t you fight, you coward?” he cried. 
“If only I can reach you just once, it ’ll be all over!” 

He hurled himself forward Hke a missile from a 
238 


SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 

catapult. His right fist grazed Percy’s cheek. 
Roused from his policy of inaction, Percy shot in a 
stinging blow that found its mark under Jabe’s right 
ear and sent him staggering. The fight was now 
fairly on. 

To and fro across the slippery hayseed the antag- 
onists battled, raising a cloud of dust. The floor 
echoed hollowly under their quick tread. 

From the outset Percy knew that he had not a sin- 
gle sympathizer. But instead of discotuaging him, 
that fact nerved him to do his utmost. He kept him- 
self well in hand and did not waste an effort. If he 
could continue to side-step Jabe’s quick rushes, and 
let the latter tire himself out, the fight was as good 
as won. 

It was a very different battle from that on July 
4th. Jabe was as good as before, but no better; 
while Percy had improved at least a hundred per 
cent. ; he had more skill and his nerves and muscles 
were far stronger. His rubber soles, too, gave him 
an advantage that he was not slow to improve. 
They assured him firm footing on the slippery floor 
and enabled him to turn quickly, as without trying 
to strike he contented himself with eluding Jabe’s 
mad charges and sledge-hammer blows. 

The audience that blocked the door had grown 
silent. Things were not going according to schedule. 
After the first few rushes they had realized that their 
hero was getting the worst of the encounter. 

Ten minutes had gone by. Jabe was breathing 
hard, while Percy was fresh as ever. His cool smile 
maddened his antagonist and made him less skilful. 
In one of his onsets he had slammed his doubled fist 
239 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

against the wooden partition and split his knuckles ; the 
pain and the running blood made him wild with rage. 

Confident at first of easy victory, he had finally 
realized that Percy was playing with him, that he 
had met his master in the boxing-game. His face 
had shown in tiuri anger, surprise, alarm, and at last 
positive fear. But one thought possessed his mind, 
to win at any cost, by fair means or foul. His rushes, 
which had slackened, grew more violent. He came 
at Percy head down; he tried to crowd him into a 
comer, to throw his arms around him, to overpower 
him by sheer, bmte strength. 

Percy realized that in a rough-and-tumble he 
would be no match for Jabe. In legitimate boxing 
he had shown himself his foe’s superior; and he was 
not particularly anxious to emphasize that fact by 
blacking Jabe’s eyes or “bloodying” his nose. He 
would have been willing to let the matter stand 
where it was or allow Jabe to wear himself fruitlessly 
down to exhaustion. But such a course was neither 
feasible nor safe. Jabe would never voluntarily 
acknowledge that he was beaten. Besides, there was 
always the chance of something happening to put 
Percy at his mercy; and Percy knew only too well 
what that mercy would be. 

His only safety was to force a clear-cut decision. 

“It’s a case of knock-out,” he decided. “No use 
to bruise him up. Might as well have it over quick !” 

Savagely, though somewhat wearily, yet with un- 
daunted determination, Jabe mshed him and struck 
out with his left. For the first time in the battle 
Percy launched in with all his strength. He cross- 
countered with his right on the point of Jabe’s jaw. 

240 


SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 

It was the wind-up. Jabe hit the hayseed in a 
heap. For a few seconds he lay motionless, then 
struggled to a sitting position. 

'‘Got enough?” asked Percy. 

Jabe took the coimt. 

“I’m licked,” he acknowledged; and there were 
tears in his voice. 

“Can I do anything for you?” 

“No; I’ll be all right in a little while.” 

Percy put on his coat and cap and started toward 
the door. As he passed Jabe the latter stretched 
out his hand. 

“You can fight,” he conceded, grudging admira- 
tion in his tones. 

Percy grasped the bunch of stubby fingers. 

‘ ‘ So can you, ’ ’ he returned. ‘ ‘ If you’d been to the 
masters I’ve had, I wouldn’t care to mix it with you.” 

The boys opened a way for him respectfully as he 
passed through the door. He was breathing a little 
quicker than usual, but he had not received a scratch. 
Going back to the wharf where they had landed, he 
found that Budge had been waiting for him almost 
fifteen minutes. 

“What makes you so late, Perce?” he hailed. 
“We want to ship these groceries and start for Tar- 
paulin before noon.” 

Percy began passing the boxes and bags down 
aboard the dory. 

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologized. 
“But I’ve just been settling an account with an old 
friend.” 

Then he told Lane of his encounter with Jabe. 

“Now,” continued he, “I’ll tell you why I’ve 
241 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

been up into the woods every afternoon with that 
sweater of rockweed. I made it into a tight bundle 
and hung it on a springy limb to use for a punching- 
bag. It wasn’t very ornamental, but it served the 
purpose. I’ve been training for this fight ever since 
the Fourth; had a feeling I’d get another chance at 
him. It’s over now, and I hope everybody’s satis- 
fied. I am, at any rate.” 

“So that’s the reason of your daily pilgrimages,” 
laughed Lane. “You certainly have been faithful 
enough to deserve to win. But what if you’d never 
run across Jabe again? Wouldn’t you have felt that 
you’d thrown away your time?” 

“Not a bit of it! That bout every afternoon has 
kept me in first-class shape. But now the great event 
has come off, I’m going to break training and give the 
rockweed a rest.” 

The Barracouta was back at Tarpaulin before 
three o’clock. A remark dropped by Budge roused 
the curiosity of the others, and Percy was obliged 
once more to recount the story of his fight with Jabe. 

“Well,” said Jim, when he had finished, “they 
say a patient waiter is no loser; but I guess it de- 
pends a good deal on how you spend your time 
while you’re waiting — eh, Perce?” 

That night, after dark, when the boys were pre- 
paring to turn in, Filippo stepped out to the fish- 
house for some kindling. He came back on the run. 

''Fuoco!” he panted. 

The others trooped out hastily. On the southern 
horizon flamed a ruddy light. Spurling gave a cry 
of alarm. 

“Boys, it’s a vessel on fire!” 

242 


XXI 


OLD FRIENDS 

'ROUGHED by the live wire of human sympathy, 
A Camp Spurling came wide awake in an instant. 
Out there, four miles to the south, men were perhaps 
batthng for their lives. Jim issued his orders like 
bullets. 

“Come on, boys! Well take the Barracouta. 
Fetch a five-gallon can of gas from the fish-house, 
Perce! Budge and Throppy, launch that dory!” 
Dashing into the cabin, he quickly reappeared. 
“Thought I’d better get one of those first-aid pack- 
ets! Somebody may be burnt bad. Now, fellows! 
Lively!” 

The dory was barely afioat when Percy came stag- 
gering down the beach with the heavy can. Spurling 
swung it aboard, and all but FiHppo jumped in. 

“Start your fire again!” shouted back Jim to the 
Italian. “Make some coffee! And be sure to have 
plenty of hot water! We may need it.” 

Soon the sloop was under way and heading out of 
the cove. 

“Lucky you thought of that fresh can of gas, 
Jim,” said Budge. “The tank’s pretty near empty. 
We’d have been in a nice fix if the engine had stopped 
about a mile south of the island.” 

243 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Take the tiller, Perce!” ordered Spurling. 

Vaulting up out of the standing-room, he grasped 
the port shroud and fastened his eyes on the fiercely 
blazing vessel. The flames had run up her masts 
and rigging, and she stood out a lurid silhouette 
against the black horizon. It was evident that she 
was doomed. 

“She’s gone!” was Jim’s comment as he dropped 
back into the standing-room. ‘ ‘ Hope her crew got off 
all right. There isn’t much we can do to help ; but at 
any rate we ought to go out and tow in her boats.” 

“What is she? Fisherman?” asked Throppy. 

‘ ‘ Most likely ! And not a very big one. Shouldn’t 
wonder if she’d had a gas explosion in her cabin; 
I’ve heard of a good many such cases. Hope no- 
body’s been burnt bad!” 

There were a few minutes of silence as they gazed 
on the spectacle of destruction. The Barracouta, 
driven to her utmost, steadily lessened the distance. 
Brighter and larger grew the fire; every detail on 
the fated craft stood sharply out against the pitchy 
background. 

“Here come two boats!” exclaimed Lane. 

Sure enough, they were clearly visible, more than 
two miles off, rising and falling on the swell, their 
oars flashing in the light from the conflagration. The 
crew had abandoned the hopeless fight and were 
saving themselves. 

“Keep her straight for ’em, Perce!” directed Jim. 

Whittington obeyed. Soon the Barracouta was 
within hailing distance of the dories. In the now 
diminishing light from the distant fire the boys could 
see that both were crowded with dark figures. 

244 


OLD FRIENDS 


“Must be at least twenty-five aboard the two/* 
commented Stevens. 

“Yes,” returned Spurling. “These fishermen 
carry big crews. Ahoy there! What’s the name of 
your vessel?” 

“The Clementine Briggs, of Gloucester,” replied a 
man in the bow of the foremost dory. ‘ ‘ Running in to 
Boothbay from Cashe’s with a load of herring. The 
gas exploded and set her on fire. We tried to put it 
out, but it was no use. Just got clear with our lives 
and what we stood in.” 

“Anybody hurt?” 

“Couple of men got their faces burnt, but not 
very bad. Lucky it was no worse. But the old 
schooner’s gone. Pretty tough on Captain Sykes, 
here, for he owned most of her and didn’t have much 
insurance. Fisherman’s luck!” 

“Want a tow in to the island?” 

“Sure!” 

“Well, toss us your painter, and tell the other 
boat to make fast to your stem.” 

In a very short time the Barracouta was headed 
back for Tarpaulin, with the two heavily loaded 
dories trailing behind her. Delayed by her tow, she 
moved considerably slower than when coming out. 
A strange silence hung over the two dories. For 
fishermen, their crews were unusually quiet, sobered, 
evidently, by the catastrophe that had overtaken 
their schooner. 

“Wouldn’t those men who were burnt like to come 
aboard the sloop?” inquired Spurling. “Perhaps I 
can give ’em first aid.” 

“No,” returned the spokesman. “One of ’em ’s 
245 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Captain Sykes, here in this dory with the hand- 
kerchief over his face. He isn’t suffering much, but 
his cheeks got scorched, so I’m talking for him. The 
other man is in the next boat. The only thing for 
’em to do is to grin and bear it ; but just now they’re 
not grinning much, ’specially the captain.” 

Silence again. The sullen, red blaze on the dis- 
tant vessel was dying down against the horizon. The 
flames had stripped her to a skeleton. Her hempen 
running rigging had been consumed; sails, gaffs, 
and booms lay smoldering on her decks; above the 
hull only her masts and bowsprit were outlined in 
fire against the blackness behind. 

Lacking anything better to do, Jim began counting 
the men in the dories. He made thirteen in each. 
Most of them sat like graven images, neither speak- 
ing nor stirring. They had not even turned their 
heads to look at the perishing schooner. He could 
not understand such indifference to the fate of the 
craft that had been their home. 

Sprowl’s Cove was right ahead. Filippo opened 
the cabin door and stood framed within it, the light 
behind him casting a cheery glow down the beach. 
Louder and louder the bank behind the lagoon flung 
back the staccato of the exhaust. Presently the 
sloop nosed into the haven, the engine stopped, and 
Throppy went forward to gaff the mooring. 

The dories were cast off and rowed to the beach. 
By the time the boys got ashore all the men had 
landed. Jim, who had been watching them quietly, 
noted that most of them disembarked clumsily, more 
Hke landlubbers than sailors. They separated into 
two groups of very unequal size. One, numbering 
246 


OLD FRIENDS 


six, including the men with handkerchiefs over their 
burnt faces, withdrew from the others and began to 
talk in low tones, with earnest, excited gestures. The 
remaining twenty clotted loosely together, awkward 
and ill at ease, still preserving their mysterious si- 
lence. 

Before Jim had time to offer his unexpected guests 
anything to eat or drink, Filippo bustled hospitably 
down the beach to the larger group. 

“Will you have caffd? It is hot and eccellente.*' 

They stared at him without replying. By the 
light from the open door Jim could see that they 
were dressed like landsmen and that their clothes 
did not fit well. Their faces were darkish, they had 
flat noses, and their close-cropped hair was straight 
and black. 

Before Filippo could repeat his question a man 
from the smaller group hurried up and pushed him- 
self abruptly between the silent score and their 
questioner. 

“No!” said he, brusquely. “We don’t want any- 
thing. We had supper just before the fire.” 

His tone and attitude forbade further questioning. 
Filippo, abashed by the rebuff, returned rather 
shamefacedly to the cabin. The speaker remained 
with the group, as if to protect them from further 
approaches. To Jim his attitude seemed to be 
almost that of a guard. It deepened the mystery 
that already hung about the party. 

It was now past eight o’clock, and naturally some 
provision would soon have to be made for passing 
the night. Jim pondered. Twenty-six guests would 
prove a severe tax on their already cramped accom- 
247 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

modations. Still, the thing could be arranged; it 
must be. The smaller group of six could be taken into 
the camp. Six of the silent twenty could be stowed 
away aboard the sloop ; while the remaining fourteen 
must make what shift they could in the fish-house. 
Jim proposed this plan to the sentinel. 

The man disapproved flatly. 

“No!” was his decided reply. “We’ve got to get 
away to-night.” 

“To-night?” echoed Jim in amazement. “Why, 
man aHve, you can’t do that! It’s fifteen miles to 
Matinicus, and you’re loaded so deep it ’d take you 
almost until morning to row there. And even if you 
made it all right, you wouldn’t gain anything, for the 
boat for Rockland doesn’t leave until the first of the 
afternoon. Besides, this wind’s liable to blow up a 
storm. Of course you could row ten miles north to 
Head Harbor on Isle au Haut, walk up the island, 
and catch the morning boat for Stonington; but 
you’d have to pull most of the way against the ebb, 
and when this wind gets a little stronger it’s going 
to be pretty choppy. I wouldn’t want to risk it. 
Better stop with us to-night and let us make you as 
comfortable as we can ; and to-morrow you can start 
for any place you please.” 

The man shook his head stubbornly. 

“How far is it to the mainland?” he asked. 

Jim could hardly believe his ears. 

‘ ‘ The mainland !” he exclaimed. “A good twenty- 
five miles.” 

“Well, we’ve got to be there before morning.” 

“You’re crazy, man! Twenty-five miles across 
these waters in the night, with thirteen men in each 
248 


OLD FRIENDS 

dory! You’d never make it in the world. You can’t 
do it.” 

“Well, maybe we can’t,” retorted the other, impa- 
tiently, “but we’re going to. There’s more ways to 
kill a cat than by choking her to death with cream.” 

He walked back to the smaller group, and soon 
they were in heated, but indistinct, argument. Jim 
noted that the men with handkerchiefs over their 
faces seemed now to have no difficulty in bearing 
their share of the conversation. Captain Sykes, in 
especial, was almost violent in his gestures. 

Presently they seemed to have reached an agree- 
ment. The spokesman walked back to Jim and 
came directly to the point. 

“What ’U you take to set the crowd of us over on 
the mainland near Owl’s Head before daylight?” 

Jim was equally direct. 

“No number of dollars you can name. I don’t 
care to risk my boat and twenty-five or thirty lives 
knocking round the Penobscot Bay ledges on a night 
like this. But I’ll be glad to take you all over to 
Matinicus to-morrow for nothing.” 

“That won’t do. We’ve got to reach the mainland 
to-night. I’ll give you fifty dollars. Come, now!” 

Jim shook his head. 

“Seventy-five! No? A hundred, then! What 
d’you say?” 

“No use!” replied Jim. “I told you so at first.” 

The stranger eyed him a moment, then stepped 
aside to parley again with the others. The colloquy 
was even more spirited than before. Captain Sykes 
swung his arms like a crazy man. He pointed to the 
sky, then to the sea, then to the voiceless score, hud- 
17 249 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

died together, sheep-like, on the beach. Back came 
the speaker again, a nervous decision in his manner. 

“If you won’t set us over yourself, what ’ll you 
sell that sloop for? Give you two hundred dollars!” 

Reading refusal in the lad’s face, he raised the bid 
before Jim had time to open his lips. 

“Three hundred! We’ve some passengers who 
must get to a certain place at a particular time, and 
they can’t do it unless we can land ’em before day- 
light to-morrow. Say four hundred !” 

“That sloop isn’t for sale.” 

“Wouldn’t you take five hundred for her?” 

“No; nor a thousand!” 

Jim’s jaws came together. Back in his brain was 
forming a suspicion of these fishermen who raised 
their bid so glibly. Why were they so eager to reach 
the mainland that night, and why did the twenty 
have no voice in the discussion? He scrutinized 
them searchingly. 

“What are you staring at?” demanded the man, 
angrily. 

Jim did not reply. Percy passed by on his way to 
the cabin. He had been using his eyes to good ad- 
vantage. He nudged Jim. 

“Those fellows are Chinamen,” he whispered. 
“I’ve seen too many of ’em to be mistaken.” 

His words crystallized Jim’s suspicions into cer- 
tainty. The whole thing was plain now. The crew 
of the Clementine Briggs (if, indeed, that was her 
name) were no fishermen, but smugglers of Chinese ! 

He remembered a recent magazine article on the 
breaking of the immigration laws. Chinamen would 
cross the Pacific to Vancouver, paying the Dominion 
250 


OLD FRIENDS 


head-tax, and thus gaining admission into Canada. 
A society, organized for the purpose, would take 
them in charge, teach them a few ordinary English 
phrases, transport them to New Brunswick, and slip 
them aboard some fast schooner. The captain of this 
vessel would receive three hundred dollars a head 
for landing his passengers safely here and there at 
lonely points on the New England coast, whence they 
could make their way undetected to their friends in 
the large cities. Thus were the exclusion laws of 
the United States set at naught. 

The destruction of the schooner had made it neces- 
sary for her passengers to be landed somewhere as 
secretly and as quickly as possible. Twenty men at 
three htmdred dollars a head meant six thousand 
dollars. That explained the anxiety of the six white 
men to reach the mainland that night. They were 
criminals, breaking their country’s laws for money. 

Jim decided that they should never make use of 
the Barracouta. 

The spokesman dropped his conciliatory mask 
and turned away defiantly. 

'‘All right, young fellow! You’ve had your say; 
now we’ll have ours.” 

“Throppy,” said Jim in a low tone to Stevens, 
who was standing with Lane beside him, “these men 
are smugglers. Call the cutter!” 

He had time for nothing more. As Stevens slipped 
quietly back into the cabin there was an angry out- 
burst among the group on the beach. 

“I’ve done my best. Cap,” protested a voice. “He 
won’t listen to reason. Now take that rag off your 
face and handle this thing yourself. It’s up to you.”' 
251 


/ 

JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

There was a sudden rush of enraged men toward 
Lane and Spurling. As they came, two wrenched 
the handkerchiefs from their faces, revealing to the 
astounded boys the features of the would-be sheep- 
thieves of the first of the summer, Dolph and Cap- 
tain Bart Brittler! 

The latter was white with rage. His voice rose 
almost to a screech. 

“No more fooling! We need that sloop and we’re 
going to have her I Will you sell her?” 

“No.” 

“Then we’ll take her!” 

Brittler’s hand shot into his pocket as if for a 
revolver. 

“Stop there, Cap!” warned Dolph’s voice. “No 
gun-play! ’Tisn’t necessary. We can handle ’em.” 

He flung himself suddenly on Spurling; another 
man leaped upon Lane. Though taken completely 
by surprise and almost hurled backward, Jim quickly 
recovered his balance. A sledge-hammer blow from 
Dolph’s fist grazed his jaw as he sprang aside. He 
returned it with interest, his right going true to its 
mark; down went Dolph, as if hit by a pile-driver. 
He lay for a moment, stunned. 

Strong and active though Jim was, he could not 
bear the brunt of the entire battle. Lane’s assailant 
had proved too much for him ; they were struggling 
together on the gravel, the older man on top. Percy 
and Filippo came nmning; but their aid counted for 
little. A stocky smuggler turned toward them. A 
single blow from his fist sent the Italian reeling. 
Percy lasted longer; but his skill was no match for 
the brute strength of his foe. His lighter blows only 
252 



“we need that sloop and we’re going to have her!" 




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OLD FRIENDS 


stung his antagonist to fiercer efforts. Little by little 
the boy’s strength failed and his breath came harder. 
He slipped on a smooth stone; with a sudden rush 
his foe pinioned his arms and held him struggling. 

Dolph recovered, staggered to his feet, and entered 
the fray again. It was foiu* to one against Jim; he 
fought manfully, but it was no use. Presently he 
lay flat on his back on the gravel, bruised and pant- 
ing, one man kneeling on each arm, and a third on 
his chest. 

‘'Take him up to the camp, boys!” puffed Brittler. 

The doughty captain had not escaped unscathed. 
A swollen black eye and a bleeding nose bore elo- 
quent testimony to the force and accuracy of Jim’s 
blows. A guard on each side and another behind were 
soon propelling SpurHng toward the open door. 
From within came the ceaseless click of a telegraph 
instrument. Throppy was still calling the cutter. 
Jim heard the quick patter of the continental code; 
Brittler heard it, too, and understood. He sprang for- 
ward with a shout of alarm. 

“They’ve got a wireless! Smash it!” 

A buffet on the side of the head knocked Stevens 
off his soap-box and sent him rolling on the floor. 
Five seconds later a crashing blow from a stick of 
firewood put the instrument out of commission. 
Brittler poised his club threateningly over the pros- 
trate Stevens. 

“Wish I knew if you’ve been able to get a message 
through to anybody! If I thought you had — ” 

He did not finish, but half -raised the stick, then 
dropped it again and turned away. One by one the 
remaining members of Spurling & Company were 
253 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

bundled unceremoniously into the cabin. Then the 
door was slammed shut and two men with auto- 
matics were stationed on guard outside. 

“Don’t shoot unless you have to,” instructed Brit- 
tler’s voice, purposely raised. “And remember a 
bullet in the leg ’ll stop a man just as quick as one 
through the body.” 

And then in a tone lower, but perfectly audible to 
those inside : 

“But don’t stand any fooling! Stop ’em anyway! 
You know as well as I do how much we’ve got at 
stake.” 


XXII 


PERCY SCORES 

D efeated and imprisoned in their own camp^ 
the boys faced one another dazedly. Though 
none of the five had suffered serious injury in the 
scuffle, all were more or less bruised. Lane had a 
sHght cut where the back of his head had come in 
contact with a sharp stone on the beach; and a 
swelling on Jim’s right cheek told where the hard 
fist of one of his assailants had landed. 

Outside, the two guards conversed in low tones; 
but for a few minutes no one spoke or moved in the 
cabin. The boys sat on the boxes or had thrown 
themselves into their bunks. Elbow on table, chin 
resting in palm, Jim was buried in thought. In a 
short time, he knew, Brittler and his gang would 
sail away in the Barracouta. They would land their 
hiunan cargo and probably scuttle the sloop. Some- 
how they must be thwarted; but how? 

The boys had no weapons to match those of their 
armed guard. Without ammunition, the shot-gun 
was but a bar of iron. How could they cope with 
the bullets in the automatics? Undoubtedly every 
smuggler carried a revolver, and would use it in a 
pinch; possibly some might not wait until the 
pinch came. It was a knotty problem. The drops 
255 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

oozed out on Jim’s forehead as he wrestled for 
its solution. 

A low whistle fell on his ear. He glanced toward 
Percy’s bunk and saw the latter’s hand raised in 
warning; he was taking off his shoes, quickly and 
noiselessly. Why? Jim and the others watched. 

Soon Percy stood in his stocking feet. He puUed 
out his knife and opened the large blade. Stooping 
low, he stole toward the farther end of the cabin. 
The window there was open and covered with 
mosquito netting. 

Steps grated on the pebbles outside. One of the 
guards was making a circuit of the camp. Percy 
flattened himself on the floor directly beneath the 
window. The others, hardly daring to breathe, 
looked away. The man paused for a moment; Jim 
knew that he was peering in. Apparently satisfied 
that all was well, he resumed his patrol. 

Without delay Percy rose. He drew his knife 
along the netting near the sill, then cut it from top 
to bottom on each side, close to the frame. So skil- 
fully did the keen blade do its work that the screen 
hung apparently undisturbed. 

The guards began talking again. Placing one of the 
boxes silently under the window, and stepping upon 
it, Percy sHpped through the opening. His light 
build enabled him to drop to the ground without 
making any noise. The netting fell back and himg 
as before. 

Outside, it was thick fog; a slight drizzle was be- 
ginning. It was impossible to see further than a few 
feet. But the last two months had familiarized 
Percy with every square yard of the beach, and he 
256 


PERCY SCORES 


could have found his way along it blindfold. Cat- 
footed, he stole down toward the water. 

Steps approached, voices; he halted, ready for a 
hasty retreat. But the feet receded toward the cabin, 
and he had no difficulty in recognizing the tones of 
Dolph and Brittler. The latter was in a bad humor. 

“Now,” he growled, “we’ve got a long way to go, 
and none too much time. Every minute we waste 
here means just so much off the other end. Granted 
we reach the mainland all right, we’ll have to hustle 
to slip those Chinks under cover before daylight. 
You’d better round ’em up in that fish-house, so 
none of ’em ’ll stray away and keep us from starting 
the second the sloop’s ready. We’ve got to make 
sure there’s plenty of gas aboard, as well as a com- 
pass and chart. I’ll see if I can scare up a couple of 
lanterns.” 

The two separated, Dolph evidently going to look 
after the Chinese, while Brittler kept on toward the 
cabin. Percy stood stock-still, his heart thumping. 
Would the captain discover his absence? 

“How’s everything here, boys?” hailed Brittler. 

“All quiet,” replied one of the sentries. 

“Come inside with me. Herb, so these fellows 
won’t try any funny business.” 

The door opened. Percy felt a thrill of fear. How 
could they fail to notice there were only foiu* pris- 
oners in the camp? 

But their captors evidently had not the least 
suspicion that he had escaped. Probably they 
thought he was lying in one of the bunks. He could 
hear the voices of Brittler and Jim, the one question- 
ing, angry, and menacing, the other tantalizingly 
257 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

deliberate as he grudgingly gave the information 
demanded. Percy delayed no longer. He had his 
own work to do, and it demanded all his energy. 

Down he stole to the water’s edge, then followed 
it west until he reached a sloping rock. The Barra- 
couta, he knew, was moored not fifty feet out in the 
black fog. 

Without hesitating a second Percy waded in, and 
soon was swimming quietly toward the sloop. He 
had not dared to take one of the boats, for fear the 
grating of her keel on the beach or the sound of her 
oars might betray him. He cleft the water noise- 
lessly, and it was not long before he grasped the 
Barracouta's bobstay and hoisted himself aboard. 

Dropping down the companionway, he groped 
forward through the cabin to the little door leading 
into the bow, and crept in on hands and knees. His 
fingers found what he wanted, an opening between 
two planks, where a leak had been freshly calked 
with oakum. He dug this out with his knife-point, 
and the water began spurting in. 

Backing out and closing the door, he found a 
wrench in the tool-box and began fiunbling about 
the engine. Soon the spark-plugs were unscrewed 
and in his pocket. 

‘‘And there’s a good job done!” he thought, tri- 
luriphantly. “Guess that gang of blacklegs won’t 
get very far in the Barracouta to-night!” 

Voices on the shore. Dolph and Brittler were com- 
ing with a lantern ; a blur of light brightened through 
the fog. 

“The compass and chart are aboard,” came the 
captain’s voice, “and this can of gas ’ll be enough 
258 


PERCY SCORES 

to make us sure of striking the mainland. Launch 
that dory!** 

The dip of oars and an increasing brightness told 
that the boat was approaching. It would not do for 
Percy to be detected. Lowering himself from the 
port bow into the water, he clung to the bobstay. 

“They won’t see me here!” 

Bump! The dory struck the sloop and grated 
along her side. Dolph and Brittler clambered aboard 
and descended into the cabin. 

* ‘ Here’s the chart !” exclaimed the captain. ‘ ‘ And 
the compass, too! He told the truth about them, 
at any rate.” 

“Lucky for him!” rejoined Dolph. “I don’t like 
that big fellow worth a cent.” 

“Good reason!” was the captain’s rather sarcastic 
comment. 

“You haven’t any license to joke me about that 
knockdown, Bart Brittler! I noticed you weren’t 
in any hurry to mix it with him.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“What’s that?” cried the captain, suddenly. 
“Sounds like water running in! Hope the old scow 
isn’t leaking. Let’s have that lantern!” 

Through the thin planking Percy could hear him 
open the little door and crawl up into the bow. 
Then his faint, muffled voice reached the eagerly 
listening boy. 

“There’s a bad leak here! Come in a minute!” 

Into Percy’s brain flashed a sudden idea that left 
him trembling with excitement. Could he do it? 
If he tried, he must not fail. An instant resolution 
set him dragging himself toward the stem. 

259 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Clutching the rim of the wash-board, he flung up 
one leg, caught his toe, and raised himself, dripping. 
A moment later he was in the standing-room. 

He looked down into the cabin. The light of the 
lantern, shining roimd a body that almost filled the 
little door to the bow, showed a pair of legs backing 
out. 

The die was cast. It was too late now for Percy 
to withdraw. His only safety lay in action. 

Like lightning he slammed and hooked the double 
doors of the companionway, pulled the slide over, 
and snapped the padlock. Dolph and Brittler were 
prisoners on board the Barracouta! 

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then 
bedlam broke out below, a confused, smothered 
shouting, a violent thumping on the closed doors and 
slide. But Percy gave it no heed. Thus far his plan 
had succeeded, even beyond his expectations. But 
his work was only begun. Before it should be fin- 
ished, four men on shore must be overcome. 

Aquiver with excitement, he sprang into the dory 
and quickly rowed to the beach, some distance from 
the camp. Then he leaped out with the oars and 
carried them well up on the shingle. 

The other dory of the smugglers was, he remem- 
bered, almost exactly in front of the cabin. Skirting 
the water, he soon came plump upon the boat. He felt 
inside, found the oars, and gave one after the other 
a shove out into the cove. Barely had he done this 
when hurrying steps approached. One of the guards 
from the camp was coming to investigate the tumult 
on the Barracouta. 

He passed so close to the dory beside which Percy 
260 


PERCY SCORES 


was crouching that the boy could alnwst have 
touched him. Luckily he had no lantern. Percy 
hardly dared to breathe until the man was twenty 
feet past. 

'‘What’s the trouble out there?” he shouted. 

If the two on the sloop heard him at all, they made 
no intelligible reply. The tumult and thumping 
kept on. Not waiting to see whether or not the sen- 
tinel would succeed in establishing communication 
with his marooned companions, Percy ran silently 
up the beach. Making a broad circuit, he approached 
the cabin from behind. 

Through the open window he could see his mates, 
listening with parted lips to the hubbub outside. 
He attracted Jim’s attention by tossing in a pebble. 
Spurling sauntered leisurely toward the rear of the 
cabin. His precautions were needless ; the remaining 
sentry had concentrated his whole attention on the 
uproar in the cove. 

“Jim,” whispered Percy, hurriedly, “I’m going to 
jump that guard. You and Budge stand close to 
the door. The second you hear any fracas rush out 
and take hold with me. Stop him from shouting, if 
you can.” 

Jim nodded and stepped back from the window. 
Percy crept stealthily round the camp toward the fish- 
house. He rightly inferred that the smuggler would 
be gazing down the beach toward the invisible sloop. 

A well-oiled clock could not have worked more 
smoothly. The sentry’s thoughts were focused on 
what was taking place out there in the fog, and he was 
all unconscious of the peril that menaced him in the 
rear. 

261 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Suddenly out of the blackness behind him a lithe 
figure shot like a wildcat. One arm encircled the 
neck of the astounded guard, the hand pressing 
tightly over his mouth. The other hand caught his 
right wrist and twisted it backward, causing him to 
drop his revolver. The force of the attack flung 
him flat on his face. 

Before he could even struggle the door was 
wrenched open and two figures darted out and joined 
in the m^lee. It was soon over. Three to one are 
heavy odds. The sentry, gagged and secimely boimd, 
was hustled inside the cabin. His hat, overcoat, 
and automatic were appropriated for Jim Spimling, 
who took his place. So skilfully had the coup been 
conducted under cover of the disturbance in the 
cove that none of the other smugglers had taken 
the slightest alarm. 

Spurling assumed his post none too soon. Hardly 
had the door been closed, with Lane, Stevens, and 
Percy on the alert just inside, when the other guard 
came hiurying anxiously back. He had been imable 
to fathom the meaning of the tumult on the Barra- 
couta. 

“I don’t like this at all. Herb,” growled he as he 
drew near Jim. ‘ ‘ Dolph and the skipper have gotten 
into some kind of a scrape, but what the trouble 
is I can’t figure. I’d have gone out to them in the 
other dory, but' I couldn’t find any oars. We’d 
better call Shane and Parsons away from guarding 
those Chinks and decide what it’s best to do. We 
don’t know the lay of the land here, and any mis- 
take’s liable to be expensive.” 

By the time he had finished his remarks he was 

262 


PERCY SCORES 


close to Spurling. The latter’s silence apparently 
roused his suspicions. He stopped short. 

‘‘What—” 

He got no further. Jim’s left hand was over his 
mouth and Jim’s right grasped his right wrist. Out 
burst reinforcements from the camp. It was a repe- 
tition of the case of the first sentinel, only more so. 
Presently Number Two lay on the cabin floor beside 
his comrade, imable to speak or move. Jim was a 
good hand at tying knots. 

The five boys gathered in a comer and took ac- 
coimt of stock. Two of the six white men prisoners ; 
two others marooned on the sloop and hors du comhaty 
at least temporarily; two still at large and in a con- 
dition to do mischief, but at present entirely ignorant 
of the plight of their comrades. Two automatics 
captured, and the dories of the foe useless from lack 
of oars. Best of all, the boys themselves free and 
practically masters of the situation. Matters showed 
a decided improvement over what they had been a 
half-hour before. 

But the victory was as yet incomplete and Jim 
was too good a general to lose the battle from over- 
confidence. At any minute Dolph and Brittler 
might burst their way out through the double doors 
of the Barracouta and establish communication with 
the two men guarding the Chinese. So once more 
the trap was set and baited. Roger put on the hat 
and coat of the second sentry and joined Jim on 
guard. 

Crash! Crash! Crash! A succession of heavy, 
splintering blows, echoing over the cove, announced 
that the pair imprisoned on the sloop had at last 
18 263 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

discovered some means of battering their way to 
freedom. 

Crash-sh! 

Speech, low but intense, came floating over the 
water. The smugglers were out and evidently look- 
ing for their dory. Baffled in their search, they be- 
gan shouting. 

“Hilloo-oo! On shore! Shane! Parsons! Herb! 
Terry! Are you all dead? Come out and take us 
off! Somebody’s scuttled the sloop and locked us 
down in the cabin! Just wait till we get ashore! 
We’ll fix those boys ! Ahoy there ! Our boat’s gone ! 
Come and get us!” 

Jim pressed Roger’s arm. 

“Ready! Here comes one of ’em!” 

Somebody was running toward them from the fish- 
house. A black figure suddenly loomed up, close at 
hand. 

“What’s the trouble out there. Herb? Dolph 
and the cap are yelling like stuck pigs! Hear 
’em! Guess I’d better go out to ’em in the other 
dory, don’t you think? Shane can handle the 
Chinos — ” 

His voice shut off in a terrified gurgle. A strong 
hand forcibly sealed his lips and two pairs of muscular 
arms held him powerless, while Percy, darting from 
the cabin with a coil of rope, relieved him of his 
automatic and tied him firmly imder Jim’s whispered 
directions. Soon he, too, lay beside his comrades. 

“Shut the door a minute, Filippo!” ordered Jim. 
“Now,” he continued, briskly, “I guess we’ve got 
’em coppered. We’ll do up that man in the fish- 
house in short order. By the way, Throppy, did 
264 


PERCY SCORES 

you raise the cutter before the captain smashed your 
instrument?” 

“Don’t know,” answered Stevens. “I was so 
busy calling for help that I didn’t wait for any 
reply.” 

“We’ll know before midnight,” said Jim. “Take 
Parsons’s automatic, Perce, and come along with 
Budge and myself. Throppy, you stay here with 
Filippo and help guard these fellows.” 

He glanced at the sullen three lying boimd on the 
floor. 

“Don’t look as if they could make much trouble. 
Still, it’s better for somebody to keep an eye on 
em. 

Jim, Budge, and Percy stepped out and closed the 
door. The shouting from the Barracouta kept on 
with undiminished vigor. Appeals and threats 
jostled one another in the verbal torrent. 

“Let ’em yell themselves hoarse,” whispered Jim. 
“It won’t do ’em any good.” 

The fish-house was near. A lighted lantern 
hung just inside the open door. Near it stood 
the fourth smuggler, peering anxiously out; be- 
hind him huddled the Chinamen. He gave an ex- 
clamation of relief as he saw Jim’s figure approach- 
ing through the fog. 

“I’m glad — ” 

He stopped short, frozen with surprise, at the sight 
of the three boys. Swiftly his hand darted toward 
his left coat pocket. 

“None of that, Shane!” commanded Jim, sharply. 
“Put ’em up!” 

The three automatics in the boys* hands showed 
265 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

the guard that resistance was useless. He obeyed 
sulkily. 

“Feel in his pocket, Perce, and take his revolver! 
No, the other side! He’s left-handed.” 

Percy secured the weapon. Escorting Shane to 
the camp, they soon had him safely trussed. Brittler 
was bellowing Hke a mad bull. 

‘ ‘ Now for Dolph and the skipper ! Guess the three 
of us are good for ’em!” 

Leaving the four smugglers in the custody of 
Throppy and Filippo, the other boys proceeded down 
to the water. The shouting suddenly ceased. A 
rope splashed. 

“They’ve cast off the mooring!” exclaimed Jim. 

Another unmistakable soimd. 

“Now they’re rocking the wheel to start her!” 

Percy felt for the spark-plugs in his pocket. 

“They’ll rock it some time!” 

They did. At last they stopped. There was a 
muttered consultation, inaudible to the listening ears 
on shore. 

“Might as well wind the thing up now!” observed 
Jim in an undertone. 

“On board the sloop!” he haded. “It’s all off. 
Captain! We’ve got your four men tied up, and 
we’ve got their revolvers. You and Dolph might 
as well give it up. Throw yoiu* gims in on the 
beach, and we’U come out and get you, one at a 
time!” 

A tremendous surprise was voiced by the absolute 
silence that followed. It was broken by Brittler’s 
sneering voice: 

“So we might as well give up, had we, eh? Guess 
266 


PERCY SCORES 

you don’t know Bart Brittler, sonny ! Let ’em have 
it, Dolph!” 

Spang-spang-spang-spang! 

A fusillade of revolver-shots woke the echoes. 
The bullets spattered in the water and thudded on 
the beach. Fortimately no one was hit. 

“Scatter, fellows!” shouted Jim. And in a lower 
voice he added, “Don’t fire back!” 

Silence again. The two on the sloop were evi- 
dently reloading. Then came a regular splashing. 
The men on the Barracouta were paddling her 
ashore. Armed and desperate, now fully aware that 
the only things between themselves and a term in a 
Federal prison were the bullets in their automatics, 
they would go to almost any length to escape, even 
to the taking of life itself. Plainly there was trouble 
ahead. 

The boys came together again at the foot of the 
sea-waU. Should they fight or nm? It was one or 
the other. Whatever else they might be, Dolph and 
Brittler clearly were not cowards. If there was a 
fight, it was certain somebody would be shot, very 
Hkely killed. Was the risk worth taking? Would 
it not be better to hurry back to the cabin, warn 
FiHppo and Throppy, and escape up the bank into 
the woods? The smugglers, with but two auto- 
matics against four, would hardly dare to follow 
them. 

“Way enough, Dolph!” growled Brittler’s voice. 

The sloop had grounded. Splash! Splash! Her 
two passengers had leaped out into the water and 
were making their way to the beach. 

Jim came to‘ an instant decision. He opened his 
267 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

lips, but the words he had planned to speak were 
never uttered. The strong, rhythmical dip of oars 
suddenly beat through the fog. 

“What’s the trouble here?’’ demanded a stem 
voice. 

A great surge of thankfulness almost took away 
Jim’s power of speech. 

“It’s the cutter!’’ he ejaculated, chokingly. 
“Throppy got her, after all!’’ 


XXIII 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 

S O far as the smugglers were concerned the game 
was up. It was one thing to attempt to over- 
power a group of boys and appropriate their sloop, 
but it was quite another to offer armed resistance 
to the officers of the United States revenue service. 

Dolph and Brittler realized that; they realized, 
too, that they had absolutely no chance of escaping 
from the island, so they stood sullenly by while 
Jim told his story to the lieutenant commanding the 
boat. At the close of his recital the officer turned 
to them. 

‘‘You hear the statements of this young man. 
What have you to say for yourselves?’* 

“Nothing now,’’ replied Brittler. 

“You may hand over your guns.” 

The two surrendered their automatics and were 
placed under arrest. Following Jim’s guidance, the 
lieutenant inspected the captiired smugglers in Camp 
SpurHng and the Chinese in the fish-house. Leaving 
a guard on shore and taking Jim with him, he went 
off to make his report to the captain. 

“It’s a case for the United States commissioner at 
Portland,” decided the latter. “We’ll have to take 
the whole party there. Guess you boys had better 
269 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

come along as witnesses. The Pollux was bound 
east when we picked up your wireless; but this 
matter is so important that I’m going to postpone 
that trip for a couple of days. I can bring you and 
the rest of your party back here early day after 
to-morrow.” 

It meant to the boys a loss of only two days at 
the outside. That was a little thing in comparison 
with what might have happened if the cutter had 
not come. 

“We’ll start without waste of time,” resumed the 
captain. “Lieutenant Stevenson, you may bring 
the prisoners aboard.” 

Jim went ashore with the officer to notify his 
companions and prepare for this unforeseen journey. 
Eleven o’clock foimd the Pollux steaming west with 
her thirty-one additional passengers. The passage 
was uneventful and they were alongside the wharf 
in Portland early the next forenoon. 

Promptly at two came the hearing before the 
commissioner. It did not take long. Brittler and 
his accomplices were held for trial at the next term 
of court, and the Chinese were taken in charge by 
the immigration inspector. Before six that night 
the boys were passing out by Portland Head in the 
PolluXy boimd east. The next morning they landed 
once more in Sprowl’s Cove, and a few hours later 
they had fallen back into their customary routine, 
as if smugglers were a thing unknown. The leak in 
the Barracouta' s bow was calked, making her as tight 
as before. 

The following day dawned fiery red and it was 
evident that a fall storm was brewing. Jim and 
270 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


Percy had to battle with a high sea when they set 
and pulled their trawl ; and they were glad enough to 
get back to Tarpaulin with their catch. By noon a 
heavy surf was bombarding the southern shore. 

Five o’clock found the gale in fuU blast. A ter- 
rific wind whipped the rain in level sheets over cove 
and beach and against the low cabin squat on the 
sea-wall. Great, white-maned surges came rolHng 
in from the ocean to boom thunderously on the 
ledges roimd Brimstone. The flying scud made it 
impossible to see far to windward. It was the worst 
storm the boys had experienced since they came to 
the island. 

At half past five, after everything had been made 
snug for the night, they assembled for supper. On 
the table smoked a heaping platter of fresh tongues 
and cheeks, rolled in meal and fried brown with 
slices of salt pork. Another spiderful of the same 
viands sputtered on the stove. Hot biscuits and 
canned peaches crowned the repast. Filippo had 
done himself proud. 

A long-drawn blast howled about the cabin. 

“Gee!” exclaimed Percy, “but wasn’t that a 
screamer! This is one of the nights you read about. 
‘The midnight tempest was shrieking furiously roimd 
the battlements of the old baronial castle!’” 

“Cut it out, Perce, cut it out!” remonstrated Lane. 
“You make me feel ashamed of myself. It’s really 
unkind in you to air your knowledge of the English 
classics before such dubs as the rest of us.” 

“Well, at any rate, I’m glad we’re under cover. 
Wonder if the men who used to go to sea in this 
cabin enjoyed it anywhere near as much as we have!” 

271 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“Not half bad, is it?” said Jim. “Remember how 
delighted you were when you got your first sight of 
it, three months ago?” 

Percy grinned. 

“I’ve changed some since then,” he admitted. 
“Forget that, Jim! It’s ancient history now.” 

As he drew up his soap-box his eye dwelt appreci- 
atively on the delicacies in the platter. 

“Aren’t you other fellows going to eat anything?” 
he inquired, with mock concern. “I don’t see any 
more than enough for myself on that platter. Don’t 
be so narrow about the food, FiHppo!” 

The Italian pointed to a pan roimded up with 
uncooked titbits. 

“Plenty more!” 

‘ ‘ Good !’ ’ said Percy. * * I was afraid somebody else 
might have to go hungry.” 

All devoted themselves to the contents of their 
plates. They kept Filippo busy frying until their 
appetites were satisfied. 

Supper was over at last, and the dishes washed 
and put away. Outside, the storm raged worse than 
ever. Stevens sat down to his instrument, repaired 
after its damage by Brittler, and put the receivers 
over his ears. 

‘ ‘ Come on, Throppy I* * exhorted Lane. ‘ ' Don’t go 
calling to-night! Get out of the ether and give 
some other wireless sharps a look-in! Pull off that 
harness and take down your violin. Let’s make an 
evening of it! We sha’n’t have many more.” 

Stevens lifted his hands to remove the headpiece. 
Suddenly a change came over his face and his arms 
dropped slowly. He gave his mates a warning look. 

272 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


There fell a silence in the cabin. Anxiously the 
others watched the operator’s tense features. Min- 
utes passed. 

On a sudden he sprang up and tore off the re- 
ceivers. 

“There’s a steamer in trouble outside. Name 
soimded like Barona. Her engine’s disabled and 
she’s drifting. Can’t be very far off!” 

The boys felt sober. 

“It’s a hard night for a craft without steerage- 
way,” said Jim. “What’s that? Thunder?” 

A long, low rumble made itself heard above the 
storm. It came again, and yet again. The gloom 
was lighted for a second by a sudden blaze. 

“What’s that!” exclaimed Jim once more. 

Between the thunder-peals his ears had caught a 
single whip-like crack. A sttinning crash followed 
a lurid glare, lighting up sky and sea. Again came 
the sharp detonation, but little louder than a fire- 
cracker. This time all heard it. 

“A signal-gun!” 

Lane’s voice was full of excitement. He sprang to 
the door and the others followed. The gale was 
blowing squarely against the end of the cabin. So 
great was its force that Roger had all he could do to 
push the door open. Presently the five stood out- 
side, exposed to the full fury of the blast. For a few 
seconds all was black. 

‘ ‘ Look ! A rocket !’ * 

Up from the pitchy sea southwest of Brimstone 
shot a line of fire, curving into an arc and bursting 
aloft in a shower of many-colored balls. At its base 
were dimly visible two slender masts and a white 
273 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

hull. Almost instantly they vanished; but the boys 
had seen enough. 

“A steam-yacht!’' cried Jim. ‘‘Not more than a 
half-mile off Brimstone and drifting straight on the 
ledges. Ivooks as if she was a goner!” 

“Can’t we help her somehow?” asked Percy. 

“I’m afraid not. We couldn’t drive the sloop 
against this gale and sea; besides, those rollers would 
swamp a life-boat. All we can do is to get out on the 
point and try to save anybody who comes ashore. 
Put on your oil-clothes, fellows! Light both the 
lanterns, Percy ! Budge, you and Throppy each take 
one of those spare coils of rope! I’ll carry another 
and the Coston lights. Now I can see why Uncle 
Tom always insisted on having a couple of ’em in 
the cabin. Filippo, you’d better stay here, keep up 
a good fire, and make plenty of coffee. There goes 
another rocket ! The gun, too ! I don’t blame ’em. 
Men couldn’t be in a worse fix!” 

Leaning sidewise against the gale, the little lan- 
tern-guided procession trudged along the sea-wall 
and stumbHngly ascended the slippery path to the 
beacon on Brimstone. Sheltering the oil-soaked 
kindlings with his body, Jim scratched a match; and 
in a twinkling long tongues of smoky flame were 
streaming wildly to leeward. 

“Ah! They see us!” 

Three rockets in qmck succession rose from the 
yacht, now barely a quarter-mile away. The thun- 
der and Hghtning were almost continuous. Every 
flash told that the imperiled craft was steadily drift- 
ing nearer the dangerous promontory. 

“She’ll strike the Grumblers!” muttered Jim. 

274 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


“And that means she’s done for! If only she was a 
thousand feet farther east she’d float by into the 
cove. Hard luck!” 

The Grumblers were a collection of jagged rocks, 
exposed at low tide. Under the incessant flashes 
their black heads appeared and disappeared in a 
welter of frothy white. It was an ominous spectacle 
for the men on the yacht. 

Taking one of the Coston lights, Jim clambered 
down on the ledges. Soon the warning red glare of 
the torch, held high above his head, was illumining 
the rocks and breakers. He held the light aloft 
imtil it went out, then rejoined the others. 

“They’re getting a boat over!’’ cried Stevens. 

Half a dozen men, working with frantic haste, were 
swinging a tender out to leeward. 

“No use!’’ said Jim, despondently. “She won’t 
live a minute in this sea.’’ 

Ten seconds confirmed his prediction. The yacht 
rolled. As the boat struck the water a giant sea 
filled her. Then came darkness. The next flash 
showed the boat drifting bottom up beside the 
larger craft. Another tender was launched; it sur- 
vived one sea, but the next overturned it. Still a 
third boat met with the same fate. 

Every surge was heaving the yacht nearer the 
breakers with dismaying speed. A group of figures 
gathered amidships. Silently, with pale faces, the 
boys watched the progress of the doomed craft. She 
was going to her death. How could any of those on 
board escape? 

Jim threw off his despondency. 

“Now, fellows,” he cried, “the minute she 
275 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

strikes she’ll begin to pound to pieces! Their only- 
chance ’ll be to run a line ashore. We must get out 
as far as we can to catch it.’^ 

Every billow buried the base of the point in snowy 
foam and sent the spray flying far up its rugged front. 
Using the utmost caution, the boys descended to the 
limit of safety. At the next flash they peered eagerly 
seaward. 

The yacht was almost on the Grumblers ! Up she 
heaved on a high siu-ge, dropped. They caught their 
breaths. No! Not that time. She rose again. 

Down . . . down . . . 

Suddenly she stopped. A grinding crash reached 
their ears. 

“She’s struck!’’ screamed Lane. 

A blaze of sheet lightning showed her, careened 
landward, lying broadside toward them about one 
himdred feet distant. It was the beginning of the 
end. Jim, clinging to a boulder far out on the 
streaming ledges, now showered with spray, now 
buried waist-deep, was watching every movement 
of the crew. 

“They’ve made a line fast round the foremast!’’ 
he shouted back. “They’re going to send its end 
ashore on a barrel! Watch out!’’ 

Presently the tossing cask was visible, drifting 
rapidly landward. For the first twenty-five yards 
its progress was unhindered; then a half -tide ledge 
barred its way. It hung on this in the trough of a 
sea ; but the next billow swept it over. Before long 
it was bumping on the rocks almost within Jim’s 
reach. 

Watching his chance, he limged forward and 
276 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


caught it. A crashing surge flung him down heavily 
and rolled him over and over; but he stuck stoutly 
to his prize. When the water ran back he came 
crawling up on his hands and knees, sliding the cask 
before him. 

“Can’t stand!” he explained, briefly. “Ankle 
hint! Now muckle onto this line, everybody, and 
haul in! They’ve got a hawser bent on the other 
end.” 

A glance toward the yacht told that he was right. 
It also told that the peril of her human freight was 
greater than ever. Each sea, raising her slightly, 
dropped her back with her decks at a sharper angle 
toward the land. The grinding of the rocks through 
her steel side could be distinctly heard. 

“All together! In she comes! Now . . . heave! 
Now . . . heave! Now . . . heave!'* 

Their strength doubled by the realization that Hfe 
hung on their efforts, the boys swayed at the line 
until at last they grasped the end of the hawser. 
To it was attached another smaller rope for pulling 
in a boatswain’s chair. 

Working rapidly, they made the hawser fast roimd 
an upright boulder. The lightning flashes were now 
less frequent, but lanterns on the ship and ashore 
enabled each group to note the other’s progress. At 
last the slender cableway was rigged. Jim swung a 
lantern. Another lantern on the yacht answered. 

“The smaller line, boys! Pull in! Careful!” 

As the boys hauled, a figure dangled away from the 
vessel’s side. Shoreward it swayed, now high above 
the wave-troughs, now dipping through a lofty crest. 
It dragged safely over the inside ledge, while the boys 
277 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

held their breaths; and presently they were un- 
lashing a man from the boatswain’s chair. 

“Yes,” he said in response to Jim’s question, 
“she’s the steam-yacht Barona. Belongs to Church- 
ill Sadler of New York. One of his millionaire friends 
chartered her for a short trip to the Maine coast. 
Fifteen men aboard. I’m the mate. Came ashore 
first to see if this rig would work all right.” 

The chair was already half-way back to the 
vessel. 

“They’ll send Mr. Whittington next,” continued 
the mate. 

Percy started with surprise. 

‘ ‘ What’s that ? Whittington ?” 

“Yes. John P., the millionaire! He’s the man 
who hired the yacht.” 

“He’s my father!” gasped Percy. 

The mate gave an exclamation of astonishment. 

“Lucky we got this chair to working or soon you 
wouldn’t have had any father!” 

The swinging seat had now reached the yacht. 
Two men lashed into it a stout, squarely built 
figure. The lantern signaled that all was ready and 
the shoreward journey began. Percy was shaking so 
violently that he could hardly pull. The mate re- 
assured him. 

“Don’t be frightened, young fellow! We’ll land 
him all right!” 

He added his strength to that of the others, and 
John P. Whittington came in faster. He reached the 
ledge, only twenty-five feet from shore. Then came 
disaster! 

Something gave way on the yacht, and the hawser 
278 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


suddenly slackened, letting the boatswain's chair 
drag on the ledge. The end of a swinging rope 
caught in a crack. The millionaire stopped short! 

“Harder!” shouted the mate, setting the example. 

The boys surged on the rope, but to no avail; they 
could not budge the chair. Percy stood motionless 
with horror. 

Up curled a huge wave, high over the struggling 
figure. A thundering deluge hid him from view. 
It looked bad for John P. Whittington. Two or 
three seas more and it would matter little to him 
whether he was pulled in or not. 

Guttering and rumbling, the water flowed back. 
Down over the ledges after it leaped a slim, wiry 
figiu*e. It was Percy Wliittington ! 

He had thrown off his oil-clothes to give his limbs 
greater freedom. His head was bare and his light 
hair stood straight up from his forehead. Grasping 
the hawser, he plunged into the sea and dragged 
himself toward the rock to which his father was 
fastened. 

The group on the point stood silent, watching him 
struggle yard by yard through the black water until 
he gained the ridge. On it lay the figure in the 
boatswain’s chair, struggling feebly. Percy planted 
his feet on the slippery rock. But before he could 
reach his father another liquid avalanche buried 
them both. 

It seemed to the anxious watchers as if it would 
never nm back. When it did, the older man sagged 
from the chair, motionless; the lad still climg to the 
hawser. The future of the house of Whittington 
himg trembling in the balance. 

19 279 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

The mate gave a groan. 

“He can’t do it!” 

At that very instant Percy roused to activity. 
Even before the ledge was entirely clear he was 
leaning over his father, knife in hand. It was use- 
less to attempt to extricate the rope-end from the 
crack in which it was caught; the only thing to do 
was to cut it. Percy stooped quickly. Already the 
next sea was curling over his head. He made a 
savage assault upon the rope. 

Slash! Slash! Twice his arm rose and fell. 
The billow was breaking down over him when he 
leaped erect and flimg up his hand. 

“Pull!” yelled Jim. 

Just as the flood boiled over the ledge the chair 
and its senseless burden jerked away. Percy grasped 
the lashings and was towed along behind his father. 
Dread overcame him as he felt the limpness of the 
older man’s body. 

Through the eddying tide ... up over the 
slippery rocks . . . and presently Jim and the mate 
were unfastening the bonds that held the insensible 
millionaire in the boatswain’s chair. They carried 
him up near the beacon and laid him down on 
Percy’s oil-clothes. 

“He’s breathing!” said the mate. “He’ll come 
round all right. You’ll know what to do for him. 
I’ll go back and help get the other men off. Their 
lives mean just as much to their people as his does 
to you.” 

Working with Budge and Throppy, he took in the 
slack of the hawser, and soon the chair was dancing 
back to the yacht. Meanwhile Jim and Percy were 
280 


WHITTINGTON GRIT 


working over Mr. Whittington, and before long he 
recovered his senses. With a groan he half raised 
himself. 

“Where am I?*’ 

“You’re all right, Dad!” 

“Percy!” 

Both father and son showed a depth of feeling 
Jim wotdd hardly have credited them with possessing. 

“You don’t need me here any longer,” he said. 
“I’ll go down and help pull the others ashore. 
Throw these oil-clothes of mine over your father, 
Percy, and make him comfortable, and as soon as 
the rest are safe we’ll carry him to camp.” 

“What’s that?” growled the millionaire. “Carry 
me? I guess you don’t know the Whittingtons, 
young man!” 

His jaw set and he rose somewhat unsteadily to his 
feet. 

“Come on, Percy! Where’s that camp?” 

Walking slowly, the father leaning on his son’s 
shoulder, the two disappeared in the darkness. Jim 
watched them for a few seconds, then started down 
over the ledges. The last half-hoiu* had raised his 
estimation of the Whittington stock considerably 
above par. 

Then for a time, engrossed in life-saving, he forgot 
everything else. At last all the men were landed 
safely. It was none too soon, for the yacht was now 
almost down on her side; and it was plain she would 
pound to pieces before very long. 

Rescuers and rescued sought the cabin, where a 
good fire and hot coffee awaited them. Whitting- 
ton, senior, clad in dry clothing, lay in Percy’s 
281 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

bunk. Filippo was bustling to and fro to supply 
the wants of his numerous guests. His eyes fell upon 
a dark-haired, olive-skinned young man in the rear 
of the shipwrecked group, and the cup he was 
carrying clattered on the floor. 

‘ ‘ Frank !’ ’ he cried. ‘ ‘ Fratello mto!” 

The brothers flung themselves into each other’s 
arms. The Whittington family was not the only 
happy one in Camp Spurling that night. 


XXIV 


CROSSING THE TAPE 

T here was little sleep on Tarpaulin, either for 
rescuers or rescued, until the small hours of 
the morning. The cabin was crowded to its utmost 
capacity, as the fish-house was too cold for the 
drenched, wearied men. Filippo kept a hot fire 
going until long after midnight, and served out coffee 
galore. During his intervals of leisure he and Frank 
conversed in liquid Sicilian. 

Outside, the storm roared and the siu*f boomed 
on the ledges about Brimstone; beyond in the 
blackness lay the wrecked Barona, hammering to 
pieces. 

Gradually conversation ceased and the camp grew 
quiet. The boys and their unexpected guests, sand- 
wiched closely together on the floor and in the bunks, 
drifted off into fitful slumber. But John P. Whit- 
tington’s eyes remained wide open. 

He was outstretched in Percy’s brnik. His 
clothes hung drying before the stove, and he had 
on an old suit of Jim’s, as nothing that Percy wore 
was large enough to fit his father’s square, bulky 
figure. Beside him lay his son, sound asleep. 
John P. marveled at his regular breathing. Occa- 
sionally he touched the lad with his hand. 

283 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

All his thoughts centered about Percy. He could 
not but feel that this brown, wiry fellow who had 
saved his life was a stranger to him. He could see 
with half an eye that a great change had come over 
the boy during the summer; he had grown quieter, 
stronger, far more manly. 

Yes, Percy had stuck. John Whittington had only 
half believed that he could or would; and he had 
spent a good many valuable hours worrying over 
what he should do with his son if he didn’t stick. 
The result showed that all those hours had been 
thrown away; but somehow the millionaire couldn’t 
feel very bad about the waste. 

He began to wonder if Percy might not have done 
better in the past if his father had put in a little 
more time with him personally and spent less in mere 
money-maldng. He had tried to shift his respon- 
sibility off on somebody else, had hired others to do 
what he should have taken pains to do himself. 
That was a big mistake; John P. Whittington could 
see it plainly now. And it had come near being a 
pretty costly error for him, for Percy. Well, those 
days were over. Percy had turned squarely about 
and was doing better. Whittington, senior, de- 
termined to do better, too. 

Little by little the gale blew itself out. By day- 
break the sky was clear and the wind had gone down, 
but the high rollers still wreaked their wrath on the 
shattered yacht and thundered on the point. A fiery 
sim shot its red rays over the slumberers in the 
crowded cabin. Filippo roused yawningly, built the 
fire, and busied himself about breakfast. 

Soon everybody was astir. The millionaire’s 
284 


CROSSING THE TAPE 

clothes were now dry, and he dressed with the others. 
Save for a slight stiffness and a few bruises, he was 
all right. 

After breakfast he went up on Brimstone with 
Percy and the others to take a look at the Barona, 
The steel hull lay on its side on the foaming reef, 
a battered, crumpled shape, sadly different from the 
trim yacht that had left New York so short a time 
before. A miscellaneous lot of wreckage was swash- 
ing in the surf at the base of the point, and Jim and 
some of the crew were salvaging what they could; 
but it was not very much. 

Standing in safety on the promontory in the sun- 
light of the pleasant morning, John P. Whittington 
gazed long at the wreck. 

“Well,’* he remarked at last to the captain, who 
stood beside him, “I guess I see where I’m out fifty 
or seventy-five thousand dollars. Might as well 
take my medicine without a whimper. It was all my 
fault. You wanted to nm into Portland when the 
storm was making up, but I thought we’d better try 
for some port nearer the island. I’ve gotten so into 
the habit of having men do as I want them to that 
I thought the wind and sea would do the same. 
But I’ve learned they won’t. It’s been an expen- 
sive mistake, and it came altogether too near being 
more expensive still. It’s up to me to foot the 
bills. I’ll make it all right with you and the crew 
and Sadler.” 

The sea was going down rapidly. A council was 
held. The Rockland boat would leave Matinicus 
at half past one, and, as Jim felt that the Barracouta 
could easily make the run to the island, it was de- 
285 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

cided to send the crew back to New York that very 
day. The captain and the mate arranged to re- 
main on Tarpaulin vmtil a wrecking-tug from Boston 
should arrive. 

Mr. Whittington, yielding to the persuasions of 
Percy and the invitation of the other boys, consented 
to take the first vacation of his life and stop with 
them a week or ten days, when their season on the 
island would close. 

While the crew were preparing to embark, Filippo 
approached Jim with his newly found brother. 

‘T like to go with Frank,'* he said. 

“Sorry to have you leave, Filippo," returned Jim. 
“But I know just how you feel, and I don't blame 
you a bit." 

He called Stevens and Lane aside. Presently the 
latter went into the cabin and reappeared with a roll 
of bills. Jim handed them to the Italian. 

“Here’s one hundred dollars, Filippo, your share 
for your summer's work. You've earned it fairly. 
If there’s anything more coming to you, after we 
figure up. I’ll send it on. What will your address be? 
We hope to see you again some time." 

Filippo was overcome. Tears of gratitude filled 
his eyes as he stammered his thanks. It was ar- 
ranged that letters in the care of the Italian consul 
at Boston would always be forwarded to him. 

Jim and Throppy took the departing party over to 
Matinicus on the Barracouta, getting them there in 
ample time for the Rockland steamer. The sloop 
was back at Tarpaulin by four o'clock. 

Meanwhile John P. Whittington had started on 
his vacation. Though his time ran into thousands 
286 


CROSSING THE TAPE 


of dollars a week, he felt he could profitably spend 
a little of it in getting acquainted with his boy. One 
of the first things his keen eyes noted was the ab- 
sence of the cigarettes. 

“Knocked off, eh, Percy? For how long?’' 

“For good, Dad!” 

The millionaire suppressed a whistle; something 
had certainly struck Percy. 

The next morning, his sturdy figure garbed in oil- 
skins, he started out with his son and Jim for Clay 
Bank. He had to acknowledge that rising at mid- 
night was a little early, even for a man accustomed 
to work as hard as he had always done. 

Out on the shoal he was a silent but interested 
spectator while the trawl was being pulled and the 
fish taken aboard. An old swell was running, and 
he speedily discovered that seasickness was another 
thing his will could not master. That afternoon he 
watched Percy skilfully handle the splitting-knife 
and later do his part in baiting the trawl. 

On the morning following he went out lobstering, 
and found as much to interest him as on the day 
before. Everything was new to him. He dis- 
covered that even a man experienced in big business 
can learn some things from boys. Soon his sleep at 
night was as soimd as his son’s. 

He made a trip to Matinicus in the Barracouta, and 
talked prices with the superintendent of the fish- 
wharf and the proprietor of the general store. 

“Have a bottle of lemon, Dad?” invited Percy. 

Mr. Whittington was on the point of refusing; 
he did not care for soda. On second thought, how- 
ever, he drank it soberly. 

287 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

Percy appreciated his father’s acceptance of the 
proffered courtesy. 

‘'It’s the first time my money ever bought any- 
thing for you.” 

The experience was a novel one for them both. 

Just after light one morning the wrecking-tug 
from Boston appeared. A brief examination of the 
Barona*s hull by a diver showed that the havoc 
wrought by the sea and rocks had been so great that 
but little of value could be saved. So the tug 
started back that very afternoon, and the captain 
and the mate of the yacht went with her. 

The weather was now much cooler, and the boys 
were glad that their stay was to be short. Wild 
geese were honking overhead in V-shaped lines on 
their way south. Mr. Whittington accompanied the 
others on a gunning trip to Window Ledge, and 
came back with a dozen coots. He smacked his 
lips over the coot stew and dumplings prepared by 
Jim. Throppy dismantled his wireless and packed 
up his outfit to send away. 

On their last Thursday at Tarpaulin Uncle Tom 
Sprowl came in on the smack with Captain Higgins. 
He had boarded the Calista at York Island. Every- 
body, including Nemo and Oso, was glad to see 
Uncle Tom. His rheumatism was fully cured and 
he was spry and chipper. He was more than satis- 
fied with what the boys had accomplished during the 
summer, and he planned to continue lobstering after 
their departure. 

He noted the change in Percy. 

“Told Jim your son needed salting,” he confided 
to Mr. Whittington. “He’s all right now.” 

288 


CROSSING THE TAPE 


The afternoon before they were to leave the 
island Roger reckoned up his accounts. They 
showed that after Uncle Toni’s share had been de- 
ducted, Spurling & Company had a thousand dol- 
lars to divide. Of this, one hundred dollars had 
already been paid to Filippo. 

Lane handed Percy one hundred and fifty dollars. 

‘T don’t want him to take that,” objected Mr. 
Whittington. 

“We shouldn’t feel right if he didn’t,” said Jim. 

“Dad,” spoke up Percy, “I want it. I’ve earned 
it. Look at those hands and arms. It’s the first 
money I ever had that you didn’t give to me. I’m 
going to have cfne of the bills framed behind glass.” 

“He’s earned it, fast enough,” corroborated Jim. 
“Let him take it, Mr. Whittington. We’ll all feel 
better about it if you will.” 

So the millionaire gave his consent, with the men- 
tal reservation that in some way he would make it 
up to the others later. 

“What are you going to do with all that wealth, 
Percy?” he asked. “It won’t keep you very long in 
gasolene.” 

“Send half of it to Filippo for his brother Frank,” 
replied Percy, promptly. “He lost about all he had 
when the Barona was wrecked.” 

Later that afternoon Mr. Whittington took Jim 
aside out of Percy’s hearing. 

“Honestly, between us, how has the boy done this 
summer?” 

“I wouldn’t ask to have anybody take hold any 
better than he has since the middle of July.” 

The millionaire looked gratified. 

289 


JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN 

“I’m more than pleased at the way things have 
turned out, and I don’t know how I can ever 
repay you. Can’t I help you somehow in money 
matters?” 

Jim shook his head decidedly. 

“No, thank you, Mr. Whittington. As I told you 
at the beginning of the siunmer, we’re making our 
own way. Percy is entitled to every cent we’ve paid 
him, and I can honestly say we’re glad he’s been 
with us.” 

A half-hour afterward Mr. Whittington found his 
son alone. 

“How about those college conditions, Percy?” he 
asked. 

“Just finished my work on ’em before the wreck. 
Dad. I’m ready to take my exams the minute I 
strike college. It’s been a hard pull, harder even 
than the fishing and lobstering, and it’s kept me 
hustling; but I believe I’ve won out. Studying isn’t 
so bad. All you’ve got to do is to make up your 
mind to get your lessons, and then get ’em.” 

“That’s so in other things besides studying, 
Percy. You’ll find it out later on.” 

“I guess I don’t need to tell you,” continued his 
son, “how much I owe to Jim Spurling and the 
others. They’re the whitest bunch I ever ran with, 
and I wouldn’t have missed my siunmer with them 
for anything.” 

“Something different from what you felt three 
months ago, eh, Percy? Remember our talk at 
Graff am Academy, Commencement night?” 

^‘Ifether^iflpffl do! And, believe me, I sha’n’t 
fol^A^ it in^ nurty. By the way, there’s one fellow 
290 


CROSSING THE TAPE 

I owe a good deal to that I haven’t told you about 
yet.” 

He related to his father the story of his two en- 
counters with Jabe. The older man listened with 
grim but satisfied attention. 

“Licked him at last, did you? If you hadn’t, I 
should want you to look him up and do it now. 
It’s a Whittington habit to carry through what you 
begin. Well, Percy, you’ve certainly made good.” 

A glimmer of pride, the first he had ever shown 
in his son, crossed his face. 

“I blamed you for junking your auto. Now I’ve 
gone and junked a yacht that ’ll cost me more than 
fifty times as much. Well, there’s no fool like the 
old fool! But it’s been worth it.” 

He gave his son a look in which affection mingled 
with pride. 

“It was quicksilver, kill or cure; and I’m mighty 
glad it’s been cure.” 


THE END 























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